


Folignos' Ficlets

by folignos



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 64
Words: 60,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin. Things that are too short to be their own thing. A big old mess of ships/tropes</p><p>NEW: Nick/Bob, soulmates, Cam/Joey, soulmates, Anisimov/Dubinsky, soulmates</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saad/OMC, Stripper AU

**Author's Note:**

> literally none of this is new fic, it's all stuff i've pulled off my tumblr, but hopefully it's new to some of you!

1.

Brandon’s first team bonding night as a Jacket is just before training camp starts. He’s been in Columbus for a couple of months, bought an apartment, moved all his stuff over from Chicago. It’s going well. He almost never gets lost on the way to the arena anymore.

‘Strip club!’ Joey crows, over breakfast, when people are throwing ideas around. ‘It’s  _tradition_.’

‘Uh,’ Brandon says. ‘I’m not actually super into objectifying women, so I’ll just bow ou–’

‘It’s not a  _lady_  strip club,’ Cam says, on Brandon’s other side. ‘Can you imagine? PR would  _freak_.’

‘So it’s–’

‘Gay strip club!’ Joey says.

Right. Of course. Because PR wouldn’t freak out about that.

-

2.

They don’t have to pay or queue to get on. Apparently Joey knows the owner. Brandon’s Not Asking. He disappears for the back office as soon as everyone gets in the door, pretty much.

It’s all very. Glittery. Brandon doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many pairs of booty shorts in his life.

There’s a guy on stage dressed like a cowboy. There are assless chaps. Of course there are assless chaps. The guy catches him staring, winks, and rolls his hips in Brandon’s direction, which of course gets all the guys hollering and whooping and ‘Hey Saader, you need some singles?’

Brandon flushes, and looks away, following Matt to a table and ordering a beer from the ripped dude in silver shorts and a bow tie. When he looks up again, the guy’s gone, and there’s a trio of blond dudes dressed as firemen.

He takes a long drink of his beer, and feels like it’s gonna be a long night.

-

3.

Cam gets a lap dance, and a handful of the dude’s ass, mostly by accident.

‘I should probably report you,’ the guy says. ‘Lucky I like ‘em small and cute.’

Cam grins, triumphant when he waves the napkin with the guy’s number in Boone’s face.

‘You have a  _girlfriend_ ,’ Boone says.

‘I also have that dude’s phone number,’ Cam says, smug, and orders another drink.

-

4.

Cowboy Dude is back. This time he’s right in front of their table. Brandon feels, nonsensically, like it would be rude to ignore him, so he tips his head up just in time for the guy to rip his hat off and toss it neatly onto Brandon’s face. He’s doing some gangster thing, with a long coat and a fedora and a cigarette clenched between his lips. He lets it fall, and blows Brandon a kiss.

Brandon– kind of can’t stop watching him. He can hear the catcalls from the guys beside him, but he doesn’t really care.

Brandon’s seat is right by the stage. The guy drops down, and grabs the collar of Brandon’s shirt, yanks him in. Cam looks like he’s going to explode with glee.

‘My shift is done when I get off the stage. Wanna get a drink?’

Brandon swallows, and nods, offers the guy a crooked grin.

‘Meet me out back,’ the guy says, and kisses Brandon square on the lips, before jumping back to his feet and finally, finally, losing the underwear.

-

5.

They don’t make it as far as drinks.

Matthew is stripping to pay for law school. He blows Brandon in the back seat of his car, and takes him home.

Brandon appears in the locker room the next day with three hickeys and a faint sheen of glitter that just wouldn’t come off, no matter how many times he showered.

Joey wolf whistles, which is absurd, because he has a very distinct set of teeth marks in the cut of his hip, and when he turns around, another one in the meat of his ass.

‘Someone had fun last night,’ Foligno says, quietly. ‘Was he–’ he makes a gesture, obviously trying his hardest not to have to say anything at all.

‘Yeah,’ Brandon says. ‘He was nice.’ He grins. ‘We’re going out again in a couple days. Not to a strip club.’

‘…Good,’ Foligno says, sounding like he isn’t really sure what the appropriate response is. ‘You kids have fun,’ he says, and claps his hand on Brandon’s shoulder before wandering across to sit next to Joey and presumably have the same conversation.

Brandon watches him go, and turns to strip his shirt off. The noise the room makes when they see the nail marks down his back is totally worth it.


	2. Seabrook/Toews, Small Town AU

1.

the first time jonny leaves town he’s eleven. he packs his backpack with pb and j’s, a hand-drawn map of canada and walter the bear, and he makes it all the way to the sign at the edge of town that says _madison falls, population: 3021_.

brent finds him there, fast asleep, using walter as a pillow.

‘hey kiddo,’ he says, picking both jonny and walter up and putting them in the passenger seat.

‘i was going  _exploring_ ,’ jonny says, ‘i’m gonna find a new continent.’

‘you’re gonna find your ass grounded,’ brent says, and jonny pouts. ‘your mom was worried,’ brent says, gently.

‘mom’s always worried,’ jonny mumbles, but he sits in brent’s truck and lets brent drive him home.

-

2.

‘come on, jon,’ brent says. ‘you’re– just a kid, i can’t.’

‘i’m  _sixteen_ ,’ jonny says. ‘if you don’t want me, fine, but don’t fucking lie to me, brent.’

‘ _jon_ ,’ brent says, but the door’s already slamming.

-

3.

jonny’s eighteen when he leaves for college, packs his life into three boxes and a suitcase and jams them into the backseat of his bug. when he gets onto the highway, his mind drifts.

_‘fuck, jonny, this is a bad idea,’ brent says, but his hand is on jonny’s hip, and his stubble is scraping across jonny’s jaw._

_‘please,’ jonny breathes, ‘please, brent, i’m leaving tomorrow.’_

_‘that’s exactly why i shouldn’t do this,’ brent says, but he kisses jonny, and doesn’t say much of anything else.  
_

jonny decides not to think about brent until he’s at least made it out of the province. he makes it to morris before he thinks about brent’s hands skimming across his chest.

he makes it to the us border before he thinks about brent’s number, sitting heavy on his cellphone.

-

4.

_we should break up_

jonny’s phone rings.

‘you’re an asshole.’

‘brent…’

‘no, fuck you, jon, you don’t get to dump me over text. you fucking don’t get to pretend you’re not running away again, just like you run away from everything.’

jonny hangs up, and turns his phone off.

-

5.

jonny drops out of college in his sophomore year to go home and look after his mom. dave’s just a kid, and his dad moved back to manitoba after the divorce, so. jonny drops out of college and goes home.

he stops at the sign at the edge of town. he has a sharpie in the pocket of his duffel. he crosses out the 3193, and writes 3194.

‘that’s city property,’ a voice from behind him, says.

‘madison falls isn’t big enough to be a city,’ jonny says. ‘it’s barely a town.’ he turns around. ‘you look good, brent.’

‘you look like shit,’ brent says.

jonny shrugs. ‘i’ve been driving all night.’ he looks at his feet, where the invisible line of the town starts and ends. it feels like a much bigger step than it is to get back into town.

‘gonna run away again?’ brent asks, harsh, and jonny flinches.

‘i hope not,’ he says. ‘i missed you,’ he doesnt mean to say, but there it is, falling out of his mouth anyway. he can’t read the expression on brent’s face.

‘you’re not here for me,’ brent says.

‘i’m not,’ jonny agrees. ‘but that doesn’t mean i can’t be happy to see you.’

brent’s jaw loosens a little. ‘your mom’ll be glad you’re home,’ he says, eventually. ‘she’s missed you. hasn’t been the same without you.’

jonny takes it as the olive branch that he thinks it is, and offers brent a cautious smile. ‘it’s good to be back,’ he says, and brent laughs.

‘no it’s not,’ he says. ‘you hated it here.’

‘i didn’t hate everything,’ jonny says, carefully. ‘i learnt to love some of it.’

it feels like they’re talking in increasingly shrinking circles. jonny thinks that’s a good thing. 

he takes a breath. takes a step.

crosses the line back into madison falls.

 


	3. Chapter 3

1.

the first time zhenya goes to sid’s house, he’s looking in the cupboards for tumblers and he finds over a dozen brightly coloured boxes in one cupboard. he’s squinting at one when sid comes in the room.

‘couldn’t find them?’ he asks, nudging zhenya out of the way and opening the cupboard next to the fridge, getting a couple of tall glasses.

zhenya waves the box at him. ‘tea?’

‘uh,’ sid says. ‘yeah. sweet rhubarb.’

zhenya looks at him, picks up another box. ‘this one?’

‘lapsang.’

‘smell like burning.’

‘it’s  _nice_ ,’ sid says, sounding offended. zhenya laughs.

‘think am sticking to water.’

‘your loss,’ sid says, and starts restacking the tea in the same order zhenya took it out.

-

2.

sid has one of those plastic thermos mugs with a starbucks logo on the side. some of the guys tease him about being a capitalist sellout, but zhenya gets a whiff of it one day and smells the same tea from sid’s cupboard, the charcoal one.

‘sid’s tea gross,’ he declares, dropping down next to him in the locker room

sid scowls at him, and takes a pointed swig. ‘don’t drink it then,’ he says, and puts it on the bench next to him before pulling his hoodie off.

‘not gonna. can smell it though.’

sid rolls his eyes and takes another sip, but the next day, he brings in tea that smells sweet and fruity.

‘cranberry green tea,’ he says, when zhenya sticks his nose in it.

zhenya hums. ‘is better than lapsang,’ he allows.

-

3.

sid’s house smells of chocolate. zhenya is  _suspicious_.

‘chocolate not in diet plan,’ he says, padding into the kitchen. ‘scary gary going to be angry.’

‘it’s tea,’ sid says, glancing up from his saucepan of pasta. ‘chocolate-hazelnut. try it, if you like.’

zhenya pulls a face, and goes to the fridge for the pitcher of water.

-

4.

‘you talk in your sleep,’ sid says, suddenly. zhenya’s dozing on sid’s couch, slipping in and out of this documentary sid’s watching about military history. normally he’d follow along with russian subtitles, but he can feel his eyes sliding closed, and the english is too rushed and fuzzy for him to follow, so.

‘what say?’ zhenya asks, knuckling at one eye, and cracking the other open to look at sid.

‘uh,’ sid says. ‘it was mostly russian, i don’t–’

zheyna rumbles, and closes his eyes again.

-

5.

zhenya wakes up to sid shaking his shoulder.

‘geno.  _geno_.’

there’s an upturned mug on the floor when zhenya opens his eyes, and a wet stain spreading across the floor.

‘what?’ he grunts, glancing up at sid, who looks– kind of panicked.

‘you were talking again,’ sid says. he’s flushed. looks kind of embarrassed. 

‘more russian?’

sid shakes his head. ‘you, uh. were talking about me.’

‘oh,’ zhenya says. he almost doesn’t want to ask, but. ‘what saying?’

sid, if possible, turns redder. ‘mostly just– my name,’ he says, haltingly. ‘and– other stuff.’

‘other stuff?’ zhenya sits up. sid sits on the couch next to him, and kisses him.

‘other stuff,’ sid confirms, when he pulls away. ‘you made me drop my tea,’ he says, sounding put out.

‘will buy you new,’ zhenya says, pulling him back in. ‘will buy you all the tea in world.’

 


	4. Hartnell/Johansen, virgin Joey

Scott never did this in Philly. No,  _really_.

Philly was– different. He was still married, when he was in Philly, for one thing, but even after– he just didn’t do it. He always told himself he was just too old, not interested in that kind of hook-up.

But here in Columbus, Joey’s out on the dancefloor, dripping with sweat, pink cheeked from the sugary cocktails the older guys have been plying him with all night, and well, Scott Wants.

Joey comes back to the table eventually, shirt sticking to him, and he drops into the seat next to Scott, listing against him. Scott wraps an arm around his damp shoulders and squeezes, and Joey looks up at him with slightly parted lips, wide eyes,  _huge_  pupils.

There’s glitter high on Joey’s cheekbones, scattered along the ridges of his collarbone. Scott is so, so, going to hell.

-

Joey’s lips are sticky when Scott kisses him against his front door. He tastes like sugar and vodka. ‘What the fuck have you been drinking?’ he asks, digging in his pocket for his keys.

Joey shrugs. ‘Cam just told me to drink up, so I did. I think one was called a Woo-Woo.’

'Of course it was,’ Scott mutters, and then Joey’s tongue is in his mouth again. Scott drops his keys.

They kiss in the hallway for a long time. When Scott finally pulls away his own mouth tastes like cocktails. Joey makes a whining sound and pushes forward again, but Scott puts a hand on his chest. 'Let’s get inside,’ he says. 'I have nosy neighbours.’

Joey sighs. 'Fine,’ he says, and steps aside to let Scott fumble his key into the lock. As soon as the door swings shut, Joey’s on him again, kissing his way across the line of Scott’s jaw, hands sliding under the waistband of his pants. The front of Scott’s shirt is covered in glitter from where Joey’s pressed against him.

'Fuck me,’ Joey says between kisses, digging his fingertips into the meat of Scott’s ass to pull their hips together. He bites at Scott’s jaw before Scott pulls him back up into a kiss and flips them so he’s up against the wall again, boxing him in.

'Ask nicely,’ he says, lips catching on Joey’s skin. 'And I just might.’

He shudders. Scott’s going to enjoy this.

-

They stumble to his bedroom tangled together, Scott’s fingers fumbling the buttons on their shirts open, leaving Joey’s hanging off his shoulders.

When his own chest is bare, Joey bites at his collarbone, sharp.

‘ _Fuck_ , Joey,’ Scott says, and he pulls back.

‘Ryan,’ he says. ‘I– Joey is a team name.’ He pauses. ‘Not that you’re not team. I just. You should call me Ryan.

‘Ryan,’ Scott says, rolling it around in his mouth.

-

Scott has him spread out on the bed, shirt unbuttoned, hanging off his shoulders. He’s tenting his stupid overly tight jeans, and Scott wants him so much, but.

‘Never?’ he asks. Ryan turns redder, shakes his head.

Scott has a hand on Ryan’s chest, curling around his ribs. ‘Do you— want to?’ he asks.

Ryan’s quiet for long enough that Scott starts to lift his hand away, and then he reaches out, grabs Scott’s wrist. ‘I want it,’ he says, quiet, firm. ‘I want you.’

Scott probably has the biggest, dumbest smile on his face, but he leans down to kiss Ryan, slow and filthy, until he’s arching into the kiss, and when Scott pulls away, he’s panting, struggling to catch his breath.

'I’m gonna make it feel so good,’ Scott promises, and pops the button on Ryan’s jeans.

-

He’s two fingers deep when Ryan begs him to fuck him.

‘What do you think we’re doing right now?’ Scott asks, fucking his fingers in again, making Ryan toss his head back. He has his free hand on Ryan’s belly, holding him still, and one ankle is hooked over his shoulder.

He’s still covered in a sheen of glitter, and when Scott leans down to kiss down his chest and stomach, and tastes– salt.

‘Did you do body shots tonight, Ry?’ he asks, ducking to nose at the cut of Ryan’s hip.

‘Maybe,’ Ryan says. ‘Scotty, I want–’ He cuts himself off when Scott sinks his teeth in, crooks his fingers sharply. ‘Fuck, I want your dick.’

‘Maybe I want to fuck you like this,’ Scott says, pulling out and sliding a single finger back in, tugging at his rim to test the give. ‘Maybe I’m just gonna finger you all night, until you don’t even know your name.’

‘ _Scotty_.’

‘I got you, baby,’ Scott says, fucking his finger in and out, agonisingly slow. He can feel Ryan’s rim twitching around it. His belly is shiny with a trail of pre-come.

Ryan whimpers and squirms. Scott presses his other hand down lightly, stilling him. His eyes are screwed shut, but when Scott asks him to open up, he can see they’re wet, welling up, as his hands scrabble in the sheets.

‘Scotty, please,’ Ryan manages.

‘You might forget your name,’ Scott says, smirking, ‘but you’re not gonna forget mine.’

-

Ryan’s sprawled across the entire bed when Scott gets back from the kitchen, bottles of water in one hand.

‘You alive over there?’ he asks, tossing one on the bed. Ryan flinches away when the cold plastic hits his bare hip.

‘You’re an asshole,’ he says, trying to roll away from it.

‘So you  _are_  alive,’ Scott says, sitting on the edge of the bed and cracking the seal of his own bottle. ‘Drink your water, it’ll stop you from being hungover tomorrow morning.’

Ryan sits up, and winces.

‘You okay?’ Scott says. ‘That was– it must have been a lot for you.’

‘I’m pretty glad I don’t have to skate tomorrow,’ he admits, and takes a sip of water. He looks at Scott after, and then drops his gaze. ‘That was– it was good.’

‘What you were expecting?’

‘Not really,’ Ryan says. He brings his knees up to his chest, folds his arms on top of them.

‘Better? Worse?’

‘I didn’t think it would be so– intense.’ He lapses into silence, takes another drink. ‘Why wouldn’t you fuck me?’

Scott shrugs. ‘Didn’t want you to have to jump straight into having someone’s dick in you. It’s an adjustment.’

Ryan twists his lips, takes another drink. Scott can’t tell what he’s thinking. It bothers him more than it should.

‘Next time–’ Ryan starts, and stops. ‘ _If_ there’s a next time. Will you?’

‘Will I what?’

‘Fuck me,’ Ryan says, flushing. ‘With your– dick. Not just fingers.’

Scott grins. ‘ _If_  there’s a next time?’

‘I didn’t want to assume,’ Ryan says, pouting, looking away.

Scott shuffles closer, slings an arm around him. ‘Trust me, kid. There’s definitely going to be a next time.’

Ryan’s smile is brilliant.


	5. Saad/Sharp, post (Saad) trade

Brandon almost doesn’t pick up the phone.

It rings and rings, face down on the table, and he sits on the couch and stares at it.

Eventually, he reaches out, flips it over.

 _Patrick_.

‘I’m sorry,’ Patrick says, as soon as Brandon puts the phone to his ear. ‘Babe. Brandon. It should have been me. I don’t know why–’

‘My agent,’ Brandon says, blank.

‘It should have been me,’ Patrick repeats, lost.

Brandon opens his mouth to say nothing. He doesn’t–

What is he supposed to say? It  _should_  have been Patrick. It was supposed to be Patrick.

They  _talked about this_. Late at night, Brandon’s head on Patrick’s chest, talking in low voices. They were going to make it work. Brandon has a ring on a chain around his neck that  _says_  they’re going to make it work.

‘Even if they trade you to the Kings,’ Brandon had said, only mostly joking, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s sternum.

Patrick had tickled him until there were tears on his face.

Brandon feels a little bit like crying now.

‘Brandon,’ Patrick’s saying. ‘Are you still there? I’m flying back to Chicago. We can– I’ll be there all summer, we can have the offseason, at least.’

‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘I have to pack.’

‘Bran–’

Brandon hangs up and turns his phone off.

-

Andy turns up at his apartment while he’s sitting on his bedroom floor looking at a shirt he’d stolen from Patrick months ago.

Brandon opens the door and Andy just wraps his arms around his waist, buries his face in his shirt collar.

‘No homo,’ he mumbles.

Brandon hugs him back as tight as he can.

-

‘I thought it would be me,’ he says, over a beer. ‘I thought you were gonna end up in the rafters.’

Brandon takes another pull and says nothing. There’s a half full box of Patrick’s clothes on the floor of his living room that he can’t take with him.

‘You were supposed to be the last one standing,’ Andy says. ‘I was supposed to get traded to the Flyers.’

‘It’s a business,’ Brandon says, dull. ‘These things happen.’

‘But they don’t happen to guys like  _you_.’

Brandon’s phone buzzes.  _I’m at the airport. I’ll be in Chicago in about five hours. Love you._  He takes a deep breath and sets it down on the coffee table before he throws it against the wall.

-

Andy answers the door, when Patrick gets there, and then lets himself out. Brandon’s in his room, sorting through the rest of his clothes.

‘What are you doing?’ Patrick asks, standing in the doorway.

‘Packing,’ Brandon says, and puts aside another shirt of Patrick’s.

‘You don’t normally take this much home with you for the summer,’ he says, comes into the room. ‘Brandon, I’m so–’

‘I’m moving out,’ Brandon says, short. Lays aside another shirt.

‘You’re– moving out.’

‘I’m going home for the summer. Then I’m going to Columbus. I’m not coming back to Chicago.’

‘But– then I’ll come with you. We can have the summer, babe, it’s not– Columbus is only an hour’s flight. I’ll help you move.’

‘Why?’ Brandon asks, finally,  _finally_  looking up at him.

‘Because we’re getting married,’ Patrick says. ‘I don’t care if we have to do it in Ohio.’

‘We’re not getting married in Ohio, Patrick,’ Brandon says. Takes the ring out from under his shirt. ‘We’re– we’re not getting married.’

‘Brandon–’

‘I can’t do it,’ he says. ‘I can’t do long distance. Not with you. I can’t come back to Chicago and pretend everything’s okay and play house with you, Patrick.’ He pauses. ‘Not when you get to keep the team and the city and this apartment. I can’t do it.’

He looks up again. Patrick’s pale.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brandon says. ‘You should probably leave, I have a lot of stuff to do before tomorrow morning.’

‘No,’ Patrick says. ‘No, I’m not– I love you. I’m not giving up on this. I /love you/, and we’re not breaking up. Not like this.’

‘Please leave,’ Brandon says, voice cracking. ‘Please. I can’t– please go.’

Patrick drops to his knees in front of him. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Brandon. Not without a fight.’

‘No, I need to. I need you to go so I can pack, my mom’s expecting me tomorrow, I need. I need to get out of Chicago.’

Patrick shuffles closer on his knees, takes the half folded shirt out of Brandon’s hands. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘You can’t.’

Patrick pulls Brandon into a hug, cradling the base of his skull with one hand.

‘I  _can_ , babe, and I am. I’m not scared of your mother.’

‘You’re terrified of my mother.’

‘I’d take on three of her if it means I can spend the summer with you.’

Brandon’s breaths are getting uneven, shaky. ‘I don’t want to go to Columbus,’ he says. ‘I was supposed to stay here.’

‘I know,’ Patrick says, running a hand up and down his back.

‘It was supposed to be  _you_ ,’ he says, and feels Patrick flinch.

‘I know,’ Patrick says again, quieter.

‘I love you,’ he says, eventually, and he’s pretty sure he’s crying now. Patrick’s shirt is damp under his cheek.

‘I love you  _so much_ ,’ Patrick says. ‘We’re gonna do this.’

‘Gay marriage is legal in Pittsburgh,’ Brandon mumbles.

Patrick laughs. ‘You’re not gay.’

Brandon headbutts him in the shoulder, and then pulls back. ‘Marry me?’ he asks, quietly, wiping at the tear tracks on his face.

‘Always,’ Patrick says, and kisses him. ‘Gotta let all those Columbus women know you’re off the market.’

Brandon snorts, and leans into Patrick again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says into Patrick’s neck. ‘I just– I really thought I might get to stay here forever.’

‘We all did,’ Patrick admits. ‘But now you get to go and show them how to play Blackhawks hockey in Columbus. You’re gonna be incredible for them,’ he says, kissing Brandon’s temple.

‘I was gonna be incredible for Chicago,’ Brandon says, turning into the kiss.

‘I know, babe,’ Patrick murmurs, picks up the ring where it’s hanging on the chain, and slips it from around Brandon’s neck. He snaps the clasp open, and slips the ring onto Brandon’s finger, kissing his knuckle. ‘I’ll get you a proper wedding ring tomorrow,’ he says. ‘And we can finish packing later. Let’s go to bed.’

‘I have a conference call with them tomorrow morning,’ Brandon says, when Patrick’s folded him under the sheets, resting his head on Brandon’s chest. ‘What do I even say?’

‘You’re sad to leave Chicago, but you’re excited to start a new chapter of your life,’ Patrick says, quietly. ‘That’s what I said when I left Philly.’

‘Oh,’ Brandon says. ‘I forgot.’

Patrick looks up at him.

‘That you’d been traded,’ Brandon clarifies. ‘I thought you’d just– always been in Chicago.’

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Trades are rough. But they happen. You can’t let the job dictate your life, though.’

‘Were you with anyone, when you were traded?’

‘We broke up,’ Patrick admits. ‘She was– well, she was a she, so. It was never gonna be forever. She was nice. But–’

‘Too female for you,’ Brandon says, gently.

‘Yeah. It was easy to just cut the ties, you know?’

‘I thought it would be easier,’ Brandon says. ‘I thought I wouldn’t have to see you.’

‘Sorry,’ Patrick says. ‘I wasn’t gonna let you flee Chicago in the dead of night.’

Brandon lapses into silence. He thinks Patrick falls asleep. It still doesn’t feel real. He holds Patrick a little tighter, and knows he isn’t gonna get much sleep that night.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. Patrick doesn’t say anything. Brandon says it again, quieter, and kisses the top of Patrick’s head, before settling.

-

Columbus is. Smaller than Chicago.

His apartment is bigger, though. Big glass windows overlooking the city. He can see Nationwide from his living room.

Patrick steps up behind him, putting his arms around his waist.

‘You should fuck me against those sometime,’ he says, kissing his neck. When Brandon laces their fingers together, he can feel the wedding band on his finger, warm to the touch.

‘You know,’ Patrick says, conversationally. ‘I only have two years left on my contract.’

Brandon twists to look at him. ‘Are you–’

Patrick shrugs. ‘I like Columbus. The food is good. I’d already have somewhere to live. And I hear the Jackets have this real up and coming winger who’s gonna show this town how to win.’

‘Yeah?’ Brandon asks. ‘Maybe I’ll get his number. I am looking for a new, younger, hotter boyfriend.’

‘You are making the big bucks now,’ Patrick agrees, with a grin. ‘Maybe it's my turn to be your boy toy.’

Brandon hits him in the chest. ‘I was never your boy toy, asshole.’

Patrick leans in for a kiss. ‘Does that mean you won’t keep me in the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to?’

‘I’m divorcing you,’ Brandon declares, and Patrick laughs into the kiss, slipping a hand under Brandon’s shirt.

-

‘It’s not so bad here,’ Brandon admits, sprawled on the rug. Patrick is lying belly down next to him, underwear hanging off one foot.

‘It’s pretty great,’ Patrick says.

‘We’re getting dinner with the team in a half hour,’ Brandon says. ‘We should– do that.’

Patrick hums, picks his head up. ‘Do we have time for another round before we leave?’

‘Probably not,’ Brandon admits.

(They’re twenty minutes late to dinner, and Brandon’s hair is a disaster. Dubs gives him a punch in the shoulder and a knowing smirk. Patrick hits it off with Scott Hartnell, exchanging Philadelphia horror stories. Brandon strikes up a conversation with Johansen about the upcoming season.

Patrick’s right. Columbus won’t be so bad, Brandon thinks, catching Foligno’s eye and getting a genuine ear to ear smile from him while he talks in stilted Russian to Bobrovsky. It’s not so different from a team dinner in Chicago. Different faces. Same rules, he realises, right down to Patrick playing footsie with him and everyone else pretending not to notice.)


	6. Sharp/Toews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1/2

Patrick and Jonny are wrestling. This is not an odd occurrence in itself, Patrick wrestles with a lot of guys on the team, it happens. Chirps are said, and then honour has to be defended, that’s how it goes.

That is not how this particular wrestling match went.

For a start, there are no guys egging them on, which Patrick kind of feels is integral to the whole wrestling to defend your honour thing. How do you defend your honour if no-one’s watching you do it?

The other thing is much more objectively weird, and Patrick doesn’t really know what to do about it.

The other thing is that Jonny is very, very noticeably hard.

Jonny hasn’t seemed to notice, keeps struggling against Patrick’s efforts to pin him. ‘Fuck you, Sharpy,’ he bites out, and keeps fighting, arches his hips up with a grunt that goes straight to Patrick’s cock, and that’s when Patrick decides, on impulse, to roll over and let Jonny have it, so to speak.

Jonny jumps at the chance, sits on Patrick’s hips and grabs his wrists, pinning them above his head. Patrick struggles, for show, and then goes still.

‘Looks like you win, Toes,’ Patrick says. He’s breathing harder than expected, but not as hard as Jonny, who’s flushed and panting.

‘I– yeah?’ Jonny asks. He looks uncertain, even as he settles his ass more securely into the hollow of Patrick’s pelvis.

‘Yep,’ Patrick says, popping the P. He shifts his own hips, rubs the beginning of his erection into Jonny’s ass, and watches his eyes go wide. ‘What are you gonna do now, Jon?’

He didn’t think it was possible for Jonny’s eyes to get wider. He was wrong.

‘Uh,’ Jonny says, swallowing. He looks like a baby deer, Patrick thinks, nonsensically.

‘You gonna collect your prize?’ Patrick asks, low, rough.

‘Uh,’ Jonny says. ‘What’s my prize?’

Patrick grins, flexes his hands in Jonny’s grip, and lifts his hips the tiniest bit. Jonny goes completely still.

‘Oh,’ he says. His eyes flash to the door, then back to Patrick. His hands are vice-tight around Patrick’s wrists. When Patrick glances down his body, he can see Jonny tenting the thin material of his shorts.

‘If you let go of my wrists,’ Patrick says, slowly. ‘I can make you feel real good, Jonny.’

Jonny looks up at the door again, and then back at Patrick, and slowly loosens his grip on Patrick’s wrists. He sits back, but that just pushes his ass up against Patrick’s erection again, and he turns, if possible, even redder.

‘You wanna leave?’ Patrick asks him, gently. ‘You can, you know. I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to do.’

Jonny ducks his head, but stays where he is, hands twitching on his own thighs.

Patrick brings his own hands up, slowly, to run them up Jonny’s thighs, just skimming under the material of his shorts where they’ve ridden up to show a frankly obscene amount of thigh, and the faint hint of a tan line, near the crease of his groin.

‘You wanna take these off?’ Patrick says, plucking at the material where it’s taut.

It’s awkward, Jonny trying to shove the shorts down without climbing off of Patrick, but he manages, throwing them into the corner of the room.

Patrick shoves his sweats down just enough that he can work his dick free, sliding it between Jonny’s cheeks slowly.

Jonny makes a strangled sort of sound, so Patrick smirks, and does it again, thumbs digging into the hollows of Jonny’s hips.

Jonny puts a hand on Patrick’s sternum for support, leans forward a little, and the head of Patrick’s cock just catches on Jonny’s rim and his eyes go all wide and shocked again. Patrick’s suddenly, acutely aware of how young he is.

‘You’ve done this before?’ he finds himself asking.

Jonny looks down at him. ‘Sure. All the time.’ He doesn’t sound convincing, but the way he’s rocking back and forth makes Patrick want to believe him.

Patrick hums. ‘I can’t fuck you,’ he says, regretfully.

Jonny looks down at him, suspicious. ‘I said I’ve done this befo–’

‘I’m not saying you haven’t, kid,’ Patrick says, watching the way Jonny bristles at the word ‘kid’. ‘But we got a game tomorrow, and you should probably be able to skate for it.’

Jonny pulls a face at him, but he keeps rocking his hips down onto Patrick, keeps catching the head of Patrick’s cock, and every time he does, he makes this soft little surprised sound that pools in Patrick’s belly, makes his hips jump up again and again.

Jonny’s cock bobs between them, perfectly straight and red and cut, pre-come beading at the tip. He’s longer than Patrick, slender where Patrick’s thicker.

Patrick licks a stripe up his hand and wraps it around Jonny, watching his face go a little loose, a little slack when Patrick’s thumb and forefinger circle his cockhead tightly, twisting just the tiniest bit.

He’s still propping himself up on Patrick’s sternum, and Patrick curls a hand around the nape of his neck and drags him down into a kiss that’s more biting than anything else, trapping Jonny’s dick between their stomachs, thumbing at the head to make him circle his hips, Patrick’s dick still snugged between Jonny’s cheeks.

Jonny makes a noise into the kiss from high up in his throat. He buries both hands in Patrick’s hair, winds his fingers in deep and hangs on as Patrick scrapes a blunt thumbnail over his slit and he bucks, and the tip of Patrick’s dick just slips inside him, just for a second.

Jonny’s mouth drops open, and he seems to forget about Patrick’s mouth entirely, which: rude, but he grinds back down on Patrick’s cock, hard, like he wants nothing else but to get that pressure back.

‘Tomorrow,’ Patrick manages, even as Jonny grinds down again. ‘After the game.’

Jonny makes an impatient noise, and Patrick takes the opportunity to bite on Jonny’s lower lip, hard, just to hear him gasp.

Jonny’s rocking against him with purpose now, and Patrick abandons his hold on Jonny’s cock to dig his fingers into the meat of Jonny’s ass, driving his hips up to meet Jonny.

There are sounds spilling out of him now, things that could be words and could just be moans, and he buries his face into Patrick’s neck, shaking as he comes, making a mess of Patrick’s belly where his shirt’s ridden up.

His hips stutter to a stop, and he exhales, hard, sitting up again to trail a hand through the mess on Patrick’s stomach. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t–’ He shifts, and bumps against Patrick’s cock, still hard, and sorely neglected. ‘Oh,’ he says, and the flush rises a little higher on his cheekbones. ‘Should I–?’

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry about it, I got it.’

Jonny goes incredibly still, perched on Patrick’s hips. ‘Can I–’ he swallows, licks his lips, nervous. ‘Can I watch?’

Patrick grins. ‘Sure, kid. Move back a little for me.’

Jonny shuffles down until he’s sitting over Patrick’s thighs, staring down at Patrick’s dick like he’s salivating.

Patrick licks at his hand again, wraps it around himself without ceremony, and jerks off, just the way he likes it, tight and fast, until he spills into his hand, throwing his head back.

Jonny’s still staring, wide eyed. His t-shirt is sticking to his belly, and his lower lip is swollen where Patrick bit him, and his eyes are so, so big and soft and brown. Patrick is reminded of just how young Jonny actually is. He’s not even old enough to really grow a playoff beard, just has a faint shadow on his upper lip, the tiniest patches of stubble along the line of his jaw.

‘Hey,’ Patrick says. Jonny startles. ‘C’mere.’

Jonny shuffles in, wary, and lets Patrick tug at his t-shirt to pull him down until their lips meet, soft and gentle, almost chaste, Patrick thinks.

Jonny’s smiling hopefully when he pulls away, and Patrick just grins back. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Shower. Rookies have curfew.’

‘I’m not a rookie anymore,’ Jonny says, scowling.

Patrick smacks him gently on the ass as he sits up, rolling his neck. ‘You’re still a rookie to me, Toes. Get your ass in the bathroom.’

‘Are you coming?’ Jonny asks, when he gets to the door. He’s still bare assed, hasn’t taken his t-shirt off yet though.

Patrick– wasn’t expecting that. He shuffles out of his sweats, tugs his t-shirt over his head. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘You play your cards right, I might blow you in the tub.’

Jonny’s inhale is just the tiniest bit sharper than normal, and Patrick grins, follows him into the bathroom, and busies himself kissing Jonny stupid against the counter while they wait for the water to heat up.

 


	7. Sharp/Toews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/2

Honestly, Patrick could probably look at Jonny naked every day for a long time and never get bored. **  
**

Kid’s finally starting to fill out a little, and while he’s never gonna be broad in the way that guys like Seabs are, he’s all smooth golden skin and lean muscle.

Jonny’s got his back to Patrick while he peels his t-shirt off, like Patrick didn’t just jerk him off on the floor of his hotel room. Patrick runs a hand up the line of his spine gently, just barely scraping his fingernails against the skin. Jonny shivers, and looks over his shoulder at him.

He looks like something out of porn, or some marble sculpture, the faint arch of his back making his ass stick out just the tiniest bit. Patrick’s not gonna lie, he really wants to get his face in there.

‘The uh, the water’s hot,’ Jonny says. Patrick glances up, and Jonny’s blushing, but he looks a little smug, too, and Patrick realises he got caught staring.

‘Hop in then, rookie,’ Patrick says.

‘I’m /not a rookie/,’ Jonny whines, but he steps into the tub anyway, rubbing at the come starting to dry on his stomach.

Patrick climbs in behind him, crowds him up against the tiles just to be an asshole, and reaches for the shampoo.

‘I can wash my own hair,’ Jonny says, contrary as ever. Patrick just smears his handful of shampoo over Jonny’s belly, and leans in for a kiss.

Jonny makes an outraged sound, but he kisses back, letting Patrick slide his tongue between his lips.

Patrick tangles his soapy hand in Jonny’s hair and starts lathering, laughing into the kiss as Jonny pulls away, making a face at him. ‘Gotcha,’ Patrick says, smirking at him. ‘I figure it’s only fair that I clean you up,’ he says. ‘Since I made all the mess in the first place.’ He wipes his hand through the streaks of come still sticking to Jonny’s belly, rubbing at them until they flake off.

Jonny’s starting to flush from the hot water, the tops of his shoulders turning pink.

Patrick goes back to washing his hair, pulling on the base of his skull until he bows his head, lets Patrick guide him under the spray to wash the lather out.

When he’s done, he taps Jonny on the chin until he looks up, eyelashes clumping together with the water, and Patrick kisses him again, hand curled around his throat.

‘Talk to me, Jon,’ he says, pulling away. Jonny blinks at him. Patrick’s hand is still on his belly, rubbing in slow circles just below his navel. Soap is trailing into the wiry hair at the base of his dick. He’s not hard yet, but he’s starting to chub up, just a bit.

‘About what?’ Jonny asks, uncertain.

‘About what just happened,’ Patrick says, dipping his hand just a little bit lower.

‘Oh,’ Jonny says, quiet, considering. ‘It was. Good?’

Patrick laughs, thumb at Jonny’s lower lip. ‘Just good?’

‘Really good,’ Jonny says.

‘The best?’ Patrick tries, grinning.

Jonny flushes at that.

‘I  _knew_  it,’ Patrick says, trying not to be smug and probably missing it by a mile.

Jonny colours more, ducks his head into the spray again, won’t look at Patrick.

‘Oh,’ Patrick says.

Jonny cringes.

‘But,’ Patrick says. ‘You said–’

‘I lied,’ Jonny says, quietly.

‘Oh,’ Patrick says again. Jonny looks like he wants to bolt. ‘You’re not– you’re not regretting it, are you?’

‘What?’ Jonny looks up at him. ‘No, no way, that was– awesome.’

Patrick is not convinced. Jonny’s looking at him, but won’t make eye contact with him, and his mouth is set in that determined line he gets when he needs to win a face off. ‘Okay,’ he says, dubiously.

‘No, really,’ Jonny says. ‘Uh. I want to. Can we do that again some time?’

Patrick grins. ‘ _Definitely._ ’

Jonny pauses. All the soap is foaming around the plughole. He’s just standing under the spray, rivulets running off him.

‘Now?’ he asks.

Patrick laughs. ‘Maybe not right now.’

Jonny pouts. Patrick leans in and kisses it off him, before leaning around to shut the water off.

Jonny makes a complaining noise when Patrick steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his hips. Patrick laughs, and starts towelling his hair off.

Jonny scowls, and clambers out of the tub, taking the towel Patrick hands him.

Things devolve back in the main room. Patrick drops his towel to put his underwear back on, and Jonny wraps an arm around his waist, mouthing at his shoulder gently.

‘Off, brat,’ Patrick says. ‘What if I have plans tonight that you’re making me late for?’

‘We have the same plans tonight. Team dinner, one nutritionist mandated light beer for you and diet soda for me–’ He pulls a face. ‘And an early night, ready for morning skate tomorrow.’

Patrick laughs. ‘I guess I do have some free time after all.’

It turns into a fight, of sorts. He steps out of the underwear he was only half wearing anyway, and tackles Jonny, still in his towel, onto the bed, pinning him easily. Jonny’s taller, but playoff-lean, and Patrick’s always been stronger.

Jonny struggles, flushing red, and scowling up at Patrick.

‘Can I help you?’ Patrick asks, knees tight against Jonny’s hips.

Jonny tugs at his towel, pointedly. Patrick just smiles pleasantly, and Jonny starts bucking, ends up on his belly with one of Patrick’s hands hard on the back of his neck, the towel hanging off the curve of his ass, loose.

Patrick shifts his knees, and smacks Jonny’s ass with his free hand. Jonny yelps, and squirms, when Patrick digs the tips of his fingers just above his kidneys, finds a ticklish spot.

Jonny’s breathless with laughter by the time Patrick drops a sloppy wet kiss on the nape of his neck, where there are still droplets of water. He shifts when Patrick moves lower, scraping his beard down the line of Jonny’s spine, leaving red marks and wet trails behind him.

When he reaches the very small of Jonny’s back, just before the swell of his ass, he pauses, lips pressed to his skin. He tastes, very faintly, of soap. Jonny goes still, a little tense.

Patrick keeps his lips pressed to his skin when he talks. ‘If you don’t like it,’ he says, quietly, ‘Tell me. Okay?’

Glancing up Jonny’s body, he thinks he gets a nod. He bites gently at his skin. ‘Come on, Jon, use your words.’

‘Okay,’ Jonny says, turning his face out of the pillow.

Patrick’s hands are resting on the creases of Jonny’s thighs, just under where the towel is still covering enough of Jonny’s ass. He skims them up over the meat of his ass, pushing the towel out of the way, dipping his thumbs in between Jonny’s cheeks, slowly.

The first touch is just a brush of lips, of cheeks, against the sensitive skin of the back of his thighs. Jonny makes a sound, surprised, almost. When Patrick looks up, he’s on his elbows, trying to contort his body to look back at him.

Patrick smacks his ass again a little. ‘You’ll strain something,’ he says. ‘Lie down, kid.’

Jonny scowls at him, but pillows his head under his arms, head turned to the side.

Patrick bites at the meat of his ass gently, scrapes his cheek over the bitemark, and breathes warm air over Jonny’s rim, watching it twitch and contract even as he’s holding him open slightly. He can feel Jonny’s glutes tensing and relaxing minutely under the sprawl of his fingers.

‘I thought–’ Jonny starts, slow and even, and if Patrick couldn’t make out the tight undercurrent in his voice, he’d think this wasn’t affecting him at all. As it is, he’s barely touched Jonny, and he’s already wound tighter than a clockspring. ‘I thought the whole point of this was you sticking your tongue in my ass.’

Patrick barks a laugh, and thumbs at Jonny’s rim hard, until the tip pops past the ring of muscle and just sits there, where he can feel Jonny clenching against the tiny stretch.

‘Oh,’ Jonny says, and when Patrick looks up, his spine is a long line of tension and coiled muscle. He pushes his thumb a little deeper, and Jonny makes another surprised sound.

‘A tongue is bigger than a thumb,’ Patrick says, softly.

‘Patrick,’ Jonny says, hand reaching behind him to grab at one of Patrick’s, curling his fingers around Sharpy’s ring and pinky finger.

‘I got ya,’ Patrick says, pulls his thumb out and finally, finally presses the flat of his tongue to Jonny’s perineum, dragging it over his rim and up to the dimple right at the top of his ass.

Something in Jonny deflates, and he just goes limp, slumping into the sheets.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Patrick says, smug, and does it again and again, until Jonny’s thighs and ass are covered in red marks and slick trails from Patrick’s tongue, and the tension is starting to seep back into him. He can feel Jonny’s fingers tensing and untensing around his own, worries vaguely about the angle of his wrist, and then Jonny says his name, broken and rough, and Patrick just wants him to say it again, and again, and again.

Jonny shifts his hips, widens his thighs. Patrick dips his head down to mouth at his balls, lick gently at the shaft of his dick where it’s trapped underneath him. Jonny’s making tiny sounds into his forearm. Patrick’s pretty sure there are gonna be teeth marks there by the time he’s done.

‘Patrick,’ Jonny says again, muffled. Patrick kisses the curve of Jonny’s ass, open mouthed, and slides his tongue over his rim again, making him choke out another sound. When he works the point of his tongue inside, Jonny goes silent, but his thighs are shaking with the effort of staying still.

‘That’s a good boy,’ Patrick murmurs, pulling back a little. Jonny shifts his hips again, tries to follow him back, but Patrick just presses down with the hand on the small of his back, warning. He works him open slowly, sloppy, until Jonny’s breath is coming in shuddering pants, and Patrick can feel the muscles in his inner thighs shaking with the effort of holding still. When he shifts, his dick leaves a damp trail along the cream sheets.

‘Pat– Patrick,’ Jonny manages, rolling his hips and trying to get his knees under him to make room for a hand on his dick. Patrick pushes him flat again and skims his tongue lower, flicking it over the soft spot under his balls, making them tighten against his mouth. With Jonny’s dick pressed flat against the mattress, it’s hard for Patrick to get the angle right, but he presses his tongue hard against the slit, licking up the shaft messily before mouthing at his balls again. He’s still holding Jonny open with his thumbs, and when he glances up at his rim, shiny with Patrick’s spit, he moves his hand, slips his thumb into Jonny easily, and listens to the breath slide out of him like he’s been punctured. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Jonny says, voice cracking.

‘I got ya, Jon,’ Patrick says, crooking his thumb a little, rubbing the rough pad against his slick insides, and Jonny cries out, spasming around the knuckle as he comes, splashing on the sheets and in Patrick’s beard.

‘Seriously?’ Patrick asks, wiping at his chin.

‘Sorry,’ Jonny mumbles, between heaving breaths.

Patrick rubs his beard across Jonny’s ass, making him squirm. ‘If this doesn’t come out, I’m blaming you.’

Jonny turns his head to look at him, guilty.

‘It’s fine, kid,’ Patrick says, skimming his palm over the scrape. ‘I’ll live. I’m gonna go wash it out now though, you good here for a little while?’

Jonny nods, eyes slipping shut.

Jonny’s passed out by the time he gets back, sprawled out on his belly, but he stirs when Patrick kneels on the bed to clean him off as best he can.

‘Wanna get you off,’ he mumbles, rolling onto his side and reaching for Patrick. Patrick’s erection kind of flagged while he was washing the jizz off his face, so he’s touched, but.

‘Not necessary, kid, don’t worry about it.’

‘Not fair,’ Jonny manages. ‘You didn’t come.’

‘I’m good, Jon,’ Patrick says, sprawling out beside him, tickling his ribs.

Jonny makes a grumbling sound, but flops back onto his belly. ‘Just– rub off on me,’ he says. ‘I don’t mind.’

Patrick laughs. ‘Maybe next time,’ he says, and rolls over to sling an arm over Jonny’s waist. He knows he should leave. Go back to his own room. But Jonny’s turned into him, has his nose nudged into Patrick’s collarbone, and he’s making small snuffly sounds into Patrick’s skin.

A nap can’t hurt, Patrick figures. Wait for Jonny to fall asleep properly, and then he can go back to his own room in an hour or so. He settles in a little closer, and lets his eyes slide shut, just for a couple of minutes.


	8. Bollig/Shaw, post cup win

Andy wakes up slowly. He’s sprawled out on his belly in not-his-bed, in not-his-apartment. Huh.

He is one hundred percent still wasted. He blinks at the sunlight creeping in through a crack in the curtains, and turns his head away from it, and groans as pain shoots through his spine.

‘You awake?’ someone asks from the other room, sounding way too cheerful and definitely not hungover enough.

Andy groans louder, and experiments with moving an arm. More pain. He resigns himself to being stuck there forever.

Brandon pokes his head around the bedroom door and grins at him, like he’s the best thing Brandon’s ever seen. ‘Morning, sunshine.’

‘Kill me,’ Andy mumbles. ‘I’m going to die here.’

‘Drama queen,’ Brandon chides. ‘If you drag yourself out of bed, I’m making pancakes.’

‘I  _can’t_ ,’ Andy says, pathetically. ‘I’m stuck here.’

Brandon comes into the room fully, sits on the edge of the bed, reaches out to smooth a hand down Andy’s spine.

Andy winces. Brandon sighs. ‘How’d you fuck your back up?’

Andy shrugs, and regrets it immediately. Brandon puts a hand on his shoulder, soothing. ‘Dunno. It just got all fucked up at morning skate yesterday. They spent all day icing the fuck out of it so I could play tonight.’

‘You’re an idiot,’ Brandon says, leans over to kiss the nape of Andy’s neck. ‘Also, you taste like a the floor of a nightclub.’

‘It was the  _Cup_.’ Andy argues. ‘Also, fuck you.’

‘I’ll get you an ice pack,’ Brandon says. ‘Are you hungry?’

Andy shakes his head, and winces again.

‘Stop moving, genius,’ Brandon says. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

Andy sighs, content, when the ice pack lands on the small of his back.

‘Where’s it hurt worst?’ Brandon asks, climbing onto the bed next to him.

‘Everywhere,’ Andy complains. ‘You can leave it there, though.’

Brandon laughs, gently. ‘Okay, babe.’

They sit in silence (or lie, in Andy’s case) and every ten minutes, Brandon shifts the ice pack further up Andy’s back. Slowly, it helps.

When he’s lifting the melted ice off Andy’s nape, he asks, ‘Better?’

Andy wiggles the tiniest bit. ‘Still hurts. But not as much.’

Brandon tosses the ice pack on the floor and slides a knee over Andy’s ass, balancing on his thighs.

Andy twists as much as he can without making anything worse. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

‘Giving you a backrub,’ Brandon says. ‘I learnt a couple of tricks from a guy in Calgary.’

‘A  _guy_  in  _Calgary_ , huh?’ Andy asks.

‘A sports therapist,’ Brandon clarifies. Andy’s not too proud to admit that he relaxes a little after that. He knows Brandon’s really into the possessive thing, but he always worries about being too much.

Brandon runs the palms of his hands up the line of Andy’s spine, pressing down with the heels of his thumbs.

‘Oh my  _god_ ,’ Andy says. ‘Do that  _forever_ ,’

Brandon laughs. ‘I didn’t even get started yet, babe.’

‘Don’t care,’ Andy says. ‘Don’t  _stop_.’

Brandon digs his thumbs in a little harder near the top of his back, spreading his fingers so his hands span across Andy’s shoulder blades. It feels fucking  _amazing_.

Something cold and wet hits the back of Andy’s neck, it takes him a second to realise it’s Brandon’s mouth, kissing his nape softly.

‘You were so good last night,’ Brandon says. ‘Playing so well with your fucked up back.’ He digs his thumb underneath the jut of his shoulder blades, right into the sensitive part of the muscle, and Andy just wants to die right here, in this bed.

‘ _God_ ,’ he says, arching into the touch just the tiniest bit, enough that it won’t jar his back further. ‘You’re amazing.’

Brandon chuckles against his skin, sending the vibrations across the tops of his shoulders. ‘I try.’

Slowly, Andy relaxes into the touch. It still hurts, but different. He’s starting to drift off when he feels the scrape of Brandon’s beard between his shoulder blades.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, squirming.

Brandon shushes him. His hands are curled around Andy’s ribcage, gentle downward pressure holding him still. He trails his lips further and further down Andy’s spine, stopping to kiss him every couple of inches.

His hands shift, too, skimming over Andy’s sides, past the ticklish spot just above the faint dip of his waist, until they’re sliding over the swell of his ass, thumbs digging in, spreading him open a little, and _oh_.

The first slow lick of Brandon’s tongue is almost too much. Andy feels like he’s going from zero to a hundred in three seconds, and he groans, grinding against the sheets. He’s not hard, not even close, but the drag of Brandon’s beard on his ass is fucking incredible.

Brandon doesn’t try to open him up, just keeps gliding the flat of his tongue over Andy’s rim, flicking the point of it right where he’s most sensitive, rubbing his cheeks over Andy’s ass and thighs until he feels raw.

‘Fuck,’ Andy murmurs, when Brandon finally,  _finally_  pushes the point of his tongue inside him, barely enough to stretch the muscle.

‘You like that?’ Brandon asks, biting the meat of his ass sharply.

Andy stiffens up, trying not to push back into Brandon’s mouth. Something in the small of his back spasms, and he makes a pained sound.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Brandon mumbles, lifting his head up. ‘Where’s it hurt?’

He puts a hand on the small of Andy’s back and digs gently until the muscle stops twitching.

‘Better,’ Andy mutters, shifting a little bit. One of Brandon’s thumbs is distractingly close to his rim, and now that the shooting pain in his back is mostly gone, it’s kind of all he can focus on.

Brandon flexes his hand, probably unconsciously, but the movement spreads Andy open a little more, and he shifts again, pushing back into Brandon’s thumb, nudging it right up against his rim.

Brandon seems to get the idea. He keeps one hand on the flat of Andy’s back, making slow circles with his thumb, and with the other, he pushes the tip of his thumb inside Andy, licks at the faint stretch with his tongue, and digs blunt fingers into his ass hard enough that Andy’s pretty sure they’re gonna join the rest of the bruises littering his body.

Andy can feel his erection now, pressing insistently against the sheets, but both his arms are pillowing his head, and he doesn’t think he could arch his back enough to get a hand underneath him if he tried.

‘Touch me,’ he says, quiet, insistent. Brandon goes still. ‘Brandon, /please/.’

‘Okay, babe, okay.’ Brandon murmurs. ‘Can you roll onto your side, or will that make it seize up again?’

Andy shifts. ‘Dunno. Let’s try.’

He props himself up on one elbow, shifting until he’s stretched out on his side, one knee crooked so Brandon can press his knuckles into Andy’s balls, thumb still just barely inside him. The other hand braces Andy’s back, thumb balanced between two knobs of his spine, still rubbing gently where it’s sorest.

Brandon’s tongue finds its way back to Andy’s ass eventually, licking in deep and finally forcing a needy sound out of him. Andy thinks he can feel Brandon smiling.

It’s pretty hard and fast after that, Brandon forcing his face right in so he can lick Andy open and stretch him around the wide knuckle of his thumb. Andy finally has a good enough angle to jerk himself off slowly, thumbing at the head every time Brandon pushes in a little deeper.

His orgasm surprises him. He hadn’t thought he was close, but Brandon crooks his thumb and pulls sharply at the rim, forcing his tongue in deep at the same time and Andy just chokes and spills into his hand, going limp and rolling onto his front again, right into the wet patch.

‘Fuck,’ he says into the pillow, muffled.

Brandon chuckles, and kisses the curve of his ass, pulling his thumb out and wiping it on the sheets.

‘I’m just– gonna stay here,’ Andy says, and pushes himself deeper into the sheets.

‘How’s your back?’ Brandon asks, running a hand down it.

‘It’s okay,’ Andy says. ‘Can I have another ice pack?’

‘Course, babe,’ Brandon says, curling a hand in Andy’s hair and twisting his head gently to kiss him on the cheek.

Andy’s asleep again before he gets back.


	9. Paulie/Nealer, "Things we said at the kitchen table"

i.

On game days, Paulie makes omelettes, stuffed with turkey and spinach and mushrooms. James puts ketchup on his just to see him frown over his glasses.

‘You’re disgusting,’ Paulie says, over the rim of his coffee cup. James grins at him through a mouthful of bagel.

‘You love me,’ he says.

Paulie shrugs, jabs at a chunk of turkey with his fork. ‘I have bad taste.’

James swallows his mouthful and leans over to kiss him on the cheek, lips sticky with juice.

Paulie rolls his eyes, but James sees him pretending not to smile.

ii.

“You’re drunk,’ Paulie says, neutrally, which is a  _lie_.

‘You’re drunker,’ James says, tipping his head backwards so he can look at him properly. ‘You look cute upside down,’ he adds, and giggles.

‘Why are you lying on my kitchen counter?’ Paulie asks. James rolls over onto his belly.

‘Sleeping,’ James says. ‘Come sleep with me, Paulie!’

‘Uh,’ Paulie says. ‘I’m good, bud, but maybe you shouldn’t sleep on the kitchen counter, you’ll fuck up your back.’

‘Will you sleep with me if I get off the counter?’ James asks.

‘Uh, sure, bud,’ Paulie says, rolling his eyes, but James jumps off the counter, lands a little unsteadily, and marches out to the living room.

‘What are you doing?’ he says, following him.

‘B _lanket fort_ ,’ James says, and ignores Paulie’s long suffering sigh in favour of removing all of the couch cushions.

iii.

‘I got traded,’ James says, over breakfast.

‘I know,’ Paulie says, takes a sip of orange juice.

James stares. He had not been anticipating the conversation to go sideways this fast. He’d planned for this, he had a  _script_  and Paulie is  _not sticking to it_.

‘You– know?’

Paulie nods. ‘It’s 2014, James, I have the internet. How come you didn’t tell me sooner?’

James shrugs. ‘Figured maybe if I didn’t tell anyone it would turn out to be a mistake and I’d get traded back.’

Paulie looks at him.

‘I  _know_  it’s dumb, okay?’

Paulie’s mouth twists. James doesn’t know what  _that_  means.

‘Will you help me pack all my shit?’ James asks, just to say  _something_.

‘Course,’ Paulie says, and gets up from the table to wash his glass and bowl. It’s been a short, calm conversation. James kind of feels like he just ran ten miles in a weighted vest anyway.

iv.

James is staring into his container of noodles when Skype screams at him.

‘Paulie!’ he says, hitting answer. Paulie smiles at him.

‘Who taught you how to use chopsticks?’ he asks. James looks down.

‘Richie bought me chopsticks for kids,’ he says, mournfully. ‘They click together somehow. He said I wasn’t allowed to eat pad thai with a fork anymore.’

‘That’s because you’re a grown man, not a six year old,’ Paulie says. James pouts, and scoops up another sad mouthful of noodles. ‘Duper’s oldest can use chopsticks better than you,’ he continues. ‘And don’t try and tell me that takeout is in your nutrition plan.’

‘Wasn’t gonna,’ James says, stuffing another mouthful in. Paulie eyes him suspiciously, anyway.

‘How’s Nashville?’ Paulie asks, eventually.

‘Hot. Everything’s really big. I got lost three times yesterday.’

Paulie laughs. ‘It’s going about as well as I expected, I see.’

‘Richie bought me breakfast and drove me to the rink every day this week,’ James says. ‘I think he thinks I need babysitting.’

Paulie says nothing to that. when James glances up, he’s fighting a smile.

‘Have you eaten?’ James asks, suddenly.

‘Not yet.’

‘You should. We’ll have dinner together, it’ll be just like old times.’

Paulie looks at him, but shakes his head fondly and gets out of his seat and heads for the fridge, sliding a tupperware into the microwave.

‘Paul Joseph Martin,’ James says, faux-outraged. ‘Are you having  _leftovers_?’

‘I keep making enough for two,’ he says, casually, and something in James’ gut pulls uncomfortably. He takes another mouthful to hide it.

‘How are the guys?’ he asks, when he’s swallowed.

Paulie grins, and launches into a story about locking Sid out of the locker room while he was doing a TV hit, and they swap dump stories until James’ container is empty and Paulie’s plate is in the sink waiting to be washed.

v.

The Pens are in town just in time for them to check out James’ brand new house. They all troop in through the front door loudly, and he gives them a half assed tour, and then leaves them to their own devices. Richie gave him the number of a nutrition plan approved takeout place, so he hands out menus, and then heads into the kitchen for non nutrition plan beer.

Paulie’s in the kitchen, looking out at the yard. James thinks he wants to get a hot tub installed.

‘What do you think of the place?’ James asks, putting his hands on the back of a chair and leaning forward.

‘I miss you,’ Paulie says, turning away from the window.

James pulls the chair out and sits down.

‘I didn’t mean to open with that,’ Paulie says. ‘You surprised me.’

James reaches with a leg and kicks the other chair out. Paulie sits.

‘James–’ Paulie starts.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

James doesn’t mean to sound hurt. It’s kind of how it comes out, though, shocked and upset. That pulling in his gut is back.

‘You seemed happy here, you were bonding with the new team, you bought a house. I didn’t want to upset your rhythm.’

‘You’ve seen me dance,’ James says, trying to get a laugh, because right now Paulie looks a little bit like he wants to cry. ‘I don’t have rhythm.’

‘James–’

‘I miss you too,’ James admits, ducking his head. ‘Nashville’s great, but it’s not Pittsburgh, and Webs is great, but he’s not Sid, and Richie’s great, but he’s not you, and this kitchen isn’t as good as yours.’

Paulie looks a little bit stunned. ‘What?’ James asks. ‘You’re the only person allowed to miss someone?’

‘No, I just–’ Paulie pauses. ‘You keep surprising me, James.’

‘In a good way?’ James asks, hopeful.

‘Mostly,’ Paulie says, laughing a little. 

‘We should hang out. Tomorrow, I mean. Before the game. Or after. At some point. Hanging out.’ James says a lot of words, and he doesn’t think they’re all in the right order, but he says them, which is a positive.

‘Sounds good,’ Paulie says, and grins.

‘Where the beer, Lazy?’ 

Geno comes barreling into the kitchen suddenly, looking very much like he knows exactly what he’s interrupting.

‘I’m getting it, I’m getting it,’ James says, heaving himself out of the chair. He glances back at Paulie when Geno’s left again, and rolls his eyes. Paulie laughs, and it feels, just for a second, like they’re back in Pittsburgh.

 


	10. Saad/Seabrook, "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice"

Brandon knows locker room etiquette. He’s known it since he was eight.

You keep your eyes down, or at head level. You don’t stare.

And you don’t check your teammates out, regardless of how much you’re crushing on them. Especially if said teammate is almost a decade older than you.

Brandon does his best to keep his head down, he really does. He doesn’t think anyone’s noticed.

-

‘So,’ Andy says, crunching a carrot stick obnoxiously. ‘Seabs, huh?’

Brandon nearly cuts his thumb off in shock.

‘ _What?’_

‘I keep catching you staring at him in the locker room. That’s not really bros, bud.’

Brandon puts the knife down, ducks his head. ‘I know. I can’t– I don’t do it on purpose, you know?’

Andy pats him on the hip consolingly, and crunches another carrot stick. Brandon whacks at his hand.

‘Ask him out,’ Andy says.

Brandon stares at him. ‘ _No_.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’ll say no and I’ll have to move to Alaska.’

Andy raises an eyebrow.

‘Shut up,’ Brandon says, and picks the knife up. ‘And stop eating my dinner.’

-

Seabs has a scar on his shoulder blade. It shifts and flexes when he’s shrugging a shirt on or off.

Brandon hates that he knows this. He turns to face his own stall and concentrates on tying his tie.

-

A win is a win, and a win means drinks. Everyone’s going, apparently, even the Black Aces. Brandon thinks mournfully of his Netflix account and his new couch, and climbs into the passenger seat of Andy’s car.

-

The club is hot and sticky and gross. Brandon hates clubs. He’s crammed into a booth with some of the older guys, just across from Duncs and Seabs, who appear to be sharing a beer, which: weird.

Seabs has lost his tie somewhere, and his shirt is hanging half open, exposing his collarbones. He’s rolled his sleeves up too. Brandon’s having a hard time ignoring the corded muscles in his forearms, or the way his throat works when he tips his head back for a swallow of beer.

Brandon gets caught. Of course he does. He’s watching the way Seabs’ fingers are shredding the damp paper label from the empty bottle, and he glances up and see Seabs staring straight at him, considering. Brandon flushes, and nudges at Jonny until he lets him out of the booth, and he flees for the bathroom.

-

He washes his hands and face in the sink, and loosens his tie. He looks at himself in the mirror, and considers a mental pep talk.  _Get your shit together, Saad._

He leaves the bathroom and almost has a stroke.

Seabs is leaning against the wall, looking down at his phone. He looks up at Brandon and grins. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You okay?’

‘Um,’ Brandon says. ‘Yeah?’

Seabs looks him up and down, and pushes off from the wall.

‘Good,’ he says, still smiling, and brushes past Brandon to slip into the bathroom, hand trailing across his hip.

-

Andy picks up, and leaves Brandon without a ride home, because he’s an  _asshole_.

‘You stranded, Manchild?’ he hears, and turns around from where he was trying to order an Uber.

‘Yeah, I mean, it’s fine, I can get a cab, but, as of right now. Yeah, little bit.’

Seabs takes his phone and locks it. ‘I can drive you. I’ve only had one.’

Brandon’s about to argue, but he thinks about it, and he doesn’t remember Seabs taking any of the shots, or getting a new bottle after that first one he split with Duncs.

‘Sure,’ he says, weakly. ‘Thanks.’

-

Seabs taps on the steering wheel, stuck in traffic.

‘So,’ he says, casually. ‘You wanna come back to mine?’

Brandon just about swallows his tongue. Seabs hands him a bottle of water form the center console, and waits for him to stop choking.

‘What?’ he manages, finally.

‘I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice,’ he says, still so,  _so_  casual. ‘So I was wondering, do you wanna come back to mine?’

He glances over at Brandon, and winks.

‘Uh,’ Brandon says. ‘I thought I was being subtle,’ he says, eventually. 

Seabs laughs, and reaches across to squeeze his knee. His hands are huge and warm. ‘You might wanna recheck your definition of subtle, sweetheart.’

Brandon flushes.

‘That a no?’ Seabs says. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you if it is.’

Brandon thinks about it for so long Seabs pulls up in front of his apartment building. ‘Your stop,’ he says. 

‘Do you want to come in?’ Brandon offers, cheeks heating.

Seabs looks at him. ‘You sure?’

Brandon nods. ‘Yeah, I’m– yeah.’

Seabs squeezes his knee again, and leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth. ‘Gonna be real good to you, sweetheart,’ he says, and gets out of the car.


	11. Sid/Geno, "I am learning / to appreciate the simple things / like you"

Geno doesn’t talk.

Sid doesn’t really know what to make of it. At first, he thinks it’s just because he doesn’t speak English, but he won’t speak to Gonch, either.

Sid’s had shy teammates before. Sid’s  _been_  the shy teammate before. But he’s never had a silent teammate.

He rolls with it.

- **  
**

There are whispers, in Russia, of boys who want to play hockey more than anything, and cannot.

There are whispers, in Russia, of Baba Yaga, who can make this happen, in exchange for one thing.

Zhenya has always been quiet. It costs him nothing.

-

Sid tries not to make a habit of Googling his teammates, but. He Googles Geno.

He finds an article about a boy with a time bomb in his head who should never have lived to sixteen. He finds another article about Geno making his professional debut at seventeen.

He still doesn’t understand Geno’s silence, but now he has more questions.

-

Zhenya takes to silence like he took to hockey.

He opens his mouth to shout a couple of times, but he learns to bang his stick on the ice. He learns to use his hands to speak for him.

He learns to let his  _hockey_ to speak for him.

-

Sid asks Gonch, who tells him nothing.

‘If he wanted you to know, he would have found a way to tell you,’ Gonch says, cryptically, and smiles.

-

Zhenya likes playing with Sidney Crosby.

Sidney is loud on the ice, shouting for the puck, shouting for Zhenya, shouting for everything.

Zhenya goes to the box and Sidney shouts the whole way there.

-

They learn to communicate.

Geno’s English is shaky, written down, but he tries, and Sid keeps talking to him like he can talk back, and slowly, slowly, it gets better.

-

'Why don’t you talk?’ Sidney asks him once.

Zhenya pretends not to understand, but his English is getting better and Sidney knows this.

The next time he asks, Zhenya just shakes his head.

 _Soon,_  he writes.

-

They win the Cup.  _They win the Cup._

Sid is laughing and shouting and maybe crying a little bit as he lifts the Cup over his head.

Geno lifts the Cup silently, but his smile could split his face open, and Sid decides to make enough noise for the both of them.

-

Sidney kisses him the night of the Cup win, messy and drunk and so, so happy.

Zhenya kisses back because how can he not?

He’s been in love with Sidney since they were both teenagers.

'Talk to me,’ Sidney whispers, while he’s slipping Zhenya’s shirt off his shoulders. Zhenya just looks at him, and shakes his head, hoping Sidney understands.

When Sidney opens his mouth to say something else, Zhenya kisses him.

-

Sid wakes up with an ache in his thighs and a hangover.

Geno isn’t in the bed. There’s a note on his pillow, but the shower’s running, so Sid isn’t worried.

Geno’s handwriting is big and round and looks like him, somehow.

_Traded my voice for hockey. Was worth it. Got you, too_


	12. Sid/Geno, stripper Geno

As a general rule, Sid hates clubs. They’re loud, and all the surfaces are sticky, and all the women are scary. And  _grabby_.

Colby won’t take no for an answer though, says, ‘But it’s my  _birthday,’_  in a borderline whiny tone.

Sid rolls his eyes, pulls a shirt over his head and says, ‘Okay,  _fine_ ,’ if only to stop Colby from bugging him. He’d figured it would be a standard team night out, he’d have a couple of beers and bow out early to chirps from the French-Canadian club lurking in the corner with shots and smirks.

Apparently, this is not a standard team night out, unless things have changed drastically since the last time he allowed himself to be dragged to downtown Pittsburgh.

There’s a low, circular stage in the middle of the club, and Sid eyes it suspiciously as they all crowd into a couple of booths, and Biz clatters off in the direction of the bar.

Sid unwinds a little halfway through his first beer, has a proper look around the club. The music is familiar, at least, the same banging stuff that seems to play at every club, and that makes it’s way into the Pens locker room with alarming regularity. Until… suddenly, it’s not. The music changes mid song into something a lot more… innappropriate. Cheers start up from a group of women, and… is that a smoke machine?

Sid turns round to squint at Colby. ‘What kind of club is this?’ he asks.

Flower cackles, loud and obnoxious, but fails to enlighten Sid in any way, shape or form. Sid has a sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what kind of club this is.

It takes him approximately four seconds to confirm his suspicions, and another two point eight to confirm that he is  _never ever going anywhere with Colby ever again_ , because there is a small parade of women in not very much clothing.

Sid averts his eyes automatically, which just makes Flower laugh and flick ice chips at him, so he drags his eyes back to the stage and does his best to look politely interested.

‘I can’t believe we’re at a strip club for your birthday,’ he hisses at Colby out of the side of his mouth. 'You're  _married_.’

'Yeah, Melissa loves this place,’ Colby says. 'She’s pissed she had to work.’

Sid blinks.

The music has changed to something deeper, a little slower, something that sounds a little like how Sid’s heartbeat feels, and the smoke machine has been kicked up a notch.

Sid doesn’t notice him until he’s already on the stage, slinking in through the smoke and standing a full six inches taller than the rest of the strippers.

Sid doesn’t realise his mouth is open until Colby kicks him. ‘Put it away, kid,’ he says, laughing a little.

'Uh?’ Sid says, but looks away, takes a mouthful of beer. He can’t look away for long though, his eyes tracking up the guy’s obscenely long legs, hidden inside pants that look like they’ve been painted on, up his bare chest and broad shoulders that legitimately sparkle as he sways filthily to the music. Sid’s never seen anyone over the age of like, twelve, wearing body glitter, but when it’s paired with the smudged eyeliner and the mussed hair, Sid can’t really find it in him to complain.

He watches the whole routine silently. The entire team cheers and applauds at the end, when the guy’s underwear gets peeled off, and he’s standing completely naked.

Sid tries not to stare. He really does. And yet.

Eventually, the guy disappears off the stage, and the women surrounding him start their routine. Sid takes another swallow of beer, and tells Colby he’s going to the bathroom. Colby side-eyes him a little, but shuffles out of the booth so Sid can get out.

The hallway to the bathrooms are dark and narrow. Sid is unsurprised. The bathroom is equally dark, a single, solitary flickering light that makes Sid feel like he’s in a dive bar, or a bad movie. He pisses quickly and is washing his hands when the door slams open, and the stripper from before stalks in, raking one hand through his hair, trying to flatten it down.

He’s dressed in jeans and a button up shirt now, but he’s still covered in a sheen of glitter, and eyeliner is still smeared underneath his eyes. 

Sid catches his gaze in the mirror and drops it almost immediately, stares at his hands as he finishes washing them and grabs a paper towel to dry them on.

'You Sidney Crosby,’ the guys says, in a thick accent. Russian, Sid thinks.

'Yes?’ Sid says. He doesn’t mean it to be a question, but that’s how it comes out anyway.

'Saw you watching me,' 

Sid pauses in his movements. ‘Um.’

The guy grins, sharp and easy. ‘I not tell.’ He leans against the door frame. ‘You very good at hockey.’

'Thank you?’ Sid really needs to stop putting question marks on the end of everything he says. 'You’re very good at dancing?’

The guy laughs at that, and holds his hand out. ‘Evgeni. Zhenya.’

'Zhenya,’ Sid says, trying to shape the word in his mouth. Evgeni frowns.

'Geno,’ he says, then. Sid repeats it, and Geno smiles.

-

Sid has no idea how they segued from handshakes and introductions to Geno’s tongue halfway down his throat, but he’s not complaining. The opposite, in fact, hands low on Geno’s hips and tugging him in closer while Geno bites at his lower lip sharply.

Sid doesn’t do this sort of thing, normally, and he has a list of reasons why they shouldn’t have sex in the bathroom of a strip club (1. Geno is a complete stranger, 2) his entire team is literally a fifteen second walk away, 3)  _need he continue?)_ but then Geno’s hand is in his pants and Sid can’t really remember why he was objecting, to be honest.

-

Sid washes his hands for the second time in fifteen minutes, and squints at himself in the mirror. He has body glitter in his hair, and all over his shirt. He sighs.

Geno is lounging against the wall again, looking exactly as rumpled as he had when he arrived. He smirks when Sid tries to flatten his hair down one final time, before reaching into Sid’s pocket for his phone. He actually laughs when he looks at the flip phone, flicking the cover up and tapping his number in. ‘I see you again some time,’ he says, handing Sid’s phone back.

'I, uh, sure?’ Sid says, sending a text to the number and hearing the bleep of an incoming text from Geno’s back pocket.

Geno grins, slow and filthy, and leans in for another kiss. ‘Not a question, Sidney Crosby.’


	13. Bollig/Saad, street fighter Bollig

The floor is sticky with spilt beer, and there’s a light in the corner that won’t stop flickering. 

 Brandon is pacing because he can’t seem to stop. It’s ten minutes before showtime, and he’s in the greyish headspace where he just wants to get the fight over and done with, he’s practically shaking with adrenaline and he just can’t stop moving from one corner of the room to the other.

Saader is sitting on a chair next to a rickety old table, laying strips of cloth out. Brandon’s gloves are on the chair next to him. Saader doesn’t look at him.  

Brandon keeps pacing. 

‘Bolly,’ Saader says, quietly.

Brandon stops pacing.

  
Saader reaches out, curls a hand around Brandon’s wrist, and tugs him over to the table. He sits, silently, and lets Saader turn his hand over, palm facing the table. 

Saader wraps his hands quickly, efficently, gently, wrapping the cloth strips around his hand from his knuckles all the way down past the knobs of his wrists. He presses his thumb to Brandon’s pulse point, and then, quickly, his lips, just for a second. He turns Brandon’s hand, presses another kiss to his knuckles before picking up the stiff fabric tape and encasing his hand in it, twisting it between his splayed fingers. 

Brandon’s free hand drums on the table. One of his legs is jumping.

It’s cold enough in the room that Saader’s wearing a hoody, one of Brandon’s, sleeves pushed up so he can work. His hair is pushed back out of his face with one of Brandon’s ball caps. He wonders briefly if Saader’s actually wearing anything that doesn’t belong to Brandon. 

Saader drops Brandon’s hand, picks up the other one, and repeats the process. Soft strips of cloth, kisses to the pulse point and knuckles, rough fabric tape. 

‘I’m gonna be okay, you know,’ Brandon says, too loud in the quiet room. 

Saader flinches a little. Brandon reaches out with his free hand, smooths his thumb over the sharp line of Saader’s cheekbone. 

 ‘I know,’ Saader says, soft. ‘I still worry.’ He smiles, small and tentative, and Brandon smiles back, leans in for a kiss.

A knock on the door separates them. A guy with blond curls pokes his head into the room. 

‘You ready to go?’ 

Brandon nods. ‘Give me a minute.’ 

The guy withdraws, and Brandon reaches for his gloves. He slips on one, then the other, and Saader fastens the velcro straps before picking the tub of Vaseline up from the table. 

‘Close your eyes,’ he says. He’s standing close enough for Brandon to feel his breath, hot on his jaw. He smooths the cold gel into Brandon’s brow, down the bridge of his nose, across his cheekbones. It smells faintly of lemons. Another knock on the door. 

‘Coming!’ Brandon calls. Saader holds out his mouthguard. Brandon bites into it, grins, and holds out one gloved fist. Saader bumps it. 

‘Fuckin’ knock em dead, babe,’ Saader says, and follows Brandon out of the room.  Brandon hears the crowd before he sees them, restless, already halfway to drunk. He fucking loves it like this. Just before the bell goes to start the opening round, Brandon casts his gaze behind him. 

Saader is standing in his corner, exactly where he’s always been. Brandon grins again, winks, and steps forward just as the bell goes.


	14. Paulie/Nealer, stress baker Paulie

It all starts with Paul finding a dozen eggs in his fridge one day, smiley faces drawn on every single one with a blue marker.

Paul squints at them, and shuts the fridge door without getting the milk out.

When he opens it thirty seconds later, the eggs are still there, smiling up at him. He picks up the milk and shuts the door again, leaving the eggs in the dark.

-

‘I'm  _dying_ , Paulie,’ Nealer says, mashing his face into Paul’s two week old couch cushions.

'You’re not dying, you’re hungover,’ Paul says, taking a sip of his smoothie.

Nealer lifts his head just enough to pout in Paul’s general direction. ‘Just for that, I’m going to die, and then you’ll be sorry.’

Paul nods his head neutrally, takes another sip. ‘Do you have to die on my couch? It’s new.’

Nealer moans, and drops his head back down on the cushion before lifting it back up a couple of seconds later. ‘Paulieeeeeeee,’ he whines. ‘Make me breakfaaaaast?’

Paul finishes his smoothie and gets up from his armchair.

‘[Sourdough blueberry pancakes](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/blueberry-sourdough-pancakes-recipe.html)?’ he asks.

'Marry me,’ Nealer says, slightly muffled by the cushion. Paul smiles, ruffled Nealer’s hair when he passes along behind the couch.

-

There is a bag of limes on the kitchen counter. Paul wonders briefly if he can just leave them there and the next time he comes into the kitchen and they’ll be gone.

-

Paul bakes.

It’s not a thing. Except when it is, really. Which is only when he’s stressed, or upset, or homesick, or he played a bad game, or for birthdays and other holidays, and when his parents visit, and okay, fine, it’s a thing. Whatever. Paul is an adult, he can bake whenever he goddamn likes.

Except for right now, apparently, because he had his heart set on an [orange and rhubarb cake](http://www.kitchen22.co.uk/2010/07/orange-and-rhubarb-cake.html), and he’s all out of flaked almonds, ‘and really, Nealer, what’s the point of an orange and rhubarb cake without almonds?’

Nealer hums down the phone at him.

Paul huffs at the open kitchen cupboard, and eyes the dessicated coconut calculatingly.

’-thing else?’ Paul only catches the end of Nealer’s question, and has to ask him to repeat it.

'Why don’t you just make something else? Like, um, what about that rhubarb thing you made the other day, with hazelnuts and marzipan, that was  _great_.’

Paul rolls his eyes. ‘It’s fine, I’ll go to the store tomorrow. When do you get home?’

'Tomorrow sometime,’ Nealer says, but he sounds distracted and like he’s underwater.

'Oh my god,’ Paul says. 'Stop talking on the phone while you’re driving, I’m hanging up on you, don’t die.’

'But you called m-’ Nealer gets most of the sentence out before Paul hangs up, sliding his phone into his back pocket and re-engaging in his staring competition with the small bottle of cinnamon.

-

Paul gets halfway through wrestling his coffee machine into submission when he notices the bag on the kitchen counter, smily face drawn on the corner in blue marker. Inside the bag is a package of flaked almonds.

Eventually, Paul thinks, he’s going to develop some kind of facial tic if he keeps squinting at things in his kitchen. He watches the bag while he drinks his coffee slowly, before putting the empty mug in the sink and reaching for the big ceramic mixing bowl he keeps on top of the cupboard.

Halfway through mixing, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see a text from Nealer.

_mk me cofee imc mng ovr_

-

Nealer tastes of orange when Paul kisses him, and his lips are sticky with syrup, and he smiles into the kiss like no-one Paul’s ever known.

'I don’t know how it took you so long to figure out it was me leaving stuff here,’ he says into Paul’s jaw. 'Who else even has a key to your place?’

'Shut up,’ Paul says, tugging at the lobe of Nealer’s ear with his teeth. 'Next time just ask me to make something, okay? Since when are you passive aggressive about food?’

Nealer doesn’t answer him, mostly because Paul’s tongue is in his mouth, and so Paul instead focuses on chasing the taste of rhubarb out of Nealer’s mouth, pressing the small of his back into the kitchen counter lightly.

 


	15. Saad/Sharp, phone sex

Patrick picks up the phone because if he has to listen to his mother ask him about fabric swatches one more time, he’s going to strangle himself with his shoelaces. He doesn’t even look at the caller ID before he’s excusing himself from the kitchen table and heading through the halls of his childhood home, heading straight for his bedroom.

‘Hey, Sharpy.’

Patrick frowns, looks at his phone, sees ‘Manchild’ at the top of the screen, and shrugs. ‘Rookie!’ he says, delighted. He can’t actually remember the last time he even spoke to Saader, but anything to avoid yet more “highly important” renovation talk. ‘What’s up?’

There’s a small pause on the other end. ‘Nothing. I can’t call a teammate up without there being something up? Maybe I just want to talk. Why do I have to have an ulterior motive?’

Patrick flips the lock on his bedroom door automatically, with the intention of keeping a) small children, b) smaller dogs and c) his mother out for at least a while, and settles onto his bed, one hand pillowed behind his head.

'Don’t bullshit me, Manchild, you have never once called this number sober. What’s up?’

There’s another pause, longer this time, and then Saader sighs, long and put-upon. ‘I’m fucking  _bored_ , man. My brother’s like,  _finding himself_  in Dubai, and Leddy’s communing with nature somewhere in the cell phone signal-less wilds of Minnesota, and Shawsy’s too busy fucking Chaunette to pay attention to anything else.’

Patrick rolls his eyes, crosses his ankles, and tips his head back. ‘What do you want me to do, rookie?’

'I dunno,’ Saader says, sullen. 'Entertain me.’

Patrick has a very brief, embarrassingly filthy thought about how exactly he can entertain Saader, and smiles without meaning to. ‘Just go jerk off, kid, that’ll pass the time. You’re still young enough to be amazed by your dick in your hand, right?’

'You want me to hang up?’ Saader sounds confused, almost curious.

Patrick thinks about it. Throws caution to the wind and says, ‘I didn’t say that.’

Silence on the other end of the phone. ‘You want me to talk to you and then go jerk off?’

Patrick rolls his eyes again. ‘No, kid. I want you to jerk off and talk to me.’

Saader’s sharp inhale might be Patrick’s new favourite sound.

'Okay,’ he says eventually. Patrick hears the hiss of a zipper.

'Am I on speakerphone?’ he asks, lets his free hand drift down to rest on his stomach, pinky finger just barely tucked under his waistband. He’s not hard yet, but he could definitely head in that direction easily.

'Yep,’ Saader says, a little breathless already. 'Are you alone?’

'Alone enough,’ Patrick says, and hears the tiny hitch in Saader’s breathing. He imagines him spread out on a bed, naked, thighs falling open enough for him to get a hand on his dick, and yeah, he’s getting hard. He undoes the button on his jeans, eases the zipper down slowly.

'Good.’ Saader says, and Patrick can hear the smirk in his voice, wonders briefly whether Saader might have had this in mind. 'Take your pants off.’

Patrick doesn’t say anything for a second, until Saader says, ‘Patrick,’ with an edge to it that has Patrick lifting his hips so he can shove his jeans down to his ankles, kicking them off. He’s straining against his underwear, and he palms at it idly, letting a small sound escape his lips.

'Do that again,’ Saader says. 'Louder, this time.’

Patrick palms his dick again, whines a little, and smiles when Saader makes another breathless sound. ‘Can’t be much louder,’ Patrick says, thumbing at the head over the fabric of his underwear, where there’s a damp spot already forming. ‘House isn’t that big.’

Saader huffs a laugh at him. ‘I’m taking that as a challenge.’

Patrick is suddenly mildly worried about what he’s gotten himself into.

'Touch yourself,’ Saader says. 'Slowly.’

Patrick works a hand into his underwear, curls it around the base of his dick and twists his wrist, just a little. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘Kind of thought I’d be giving the orders here.’

Saader laughs properly at that, loud and long and delighted. Patrick feels like he should be insulted by that.

'Oh, babe,’ Saader says. 'That’s cute. Now touch yourself properly, I want to hear you.’

'I just told you-’

'I know,’ Saader interrupts. 'I still want to hear you.’

Patrick tightens his grip and rolls his hips into it, getting into a bit of a rhythm, and he’s making sounds low in his throat when he hears his mom shouting his name. ‘Shit,’ he says.

'Don’t stop,’ Saader says, and there’s that edge in his voice again.

'Just… give me a second,’ he manages, and puts the phone against his chest. 'What?’ he calls back to his mom.

'Me and your brother are going to pick up the suites. Can you check on dinner in about half an hour?’

Yeah, sure,’ he says, and exhales slowly when he hears the front door slam shut.

'Sorry, I’m back,’ Patrick says. 'I feel like a fucking teenager, jerking off in secret while my parents are in the next room.’

'Do you have lube?’ Saader asks, and then bites back what sounds like a whimper.

'I, uh, somewhere,’ Patrick says, stumbling over the words. He shoves a hand back into his underwear and moans indulgently. 'I don’t think I need it though, I’m okay.’

Saader chuckles. ‘You’re gonna need it.’

Patrick flushes hot all over. ‘I, I think I have some.’

'You should probably put headphones in,’ Saader says, sounding almost conversational. 'You’re gonna need both hands for this.’

Patrick’s headphones are in the same bedside table drawer at half a bottle of lube. He’s not sure how long it’s been there, but he plugs them in and loses his fist around the bottle to warm it up. ‘How do you want me?’ he asks, almost hesitant.

'On your back, knees up. You got the lube?’

Patrick grunts in acknowledgement and flicks the cap open, shoving his underwear down his thighs and off. He can hear Saader, the sound of skin on skin, slick and easy. He’s not even making an effort to be quiet, breathing harsh, high pitched, as it comes faster and faster. Patrick can feel heat pooling at the base of his dick, and he has to grip it, gritting his teeth. ‘You need to slow down, or this is gonna be over real soon,’ he says, arching his back.

'Shut up,’ Saader says, but he slows down. Patrick can hear his breathing evening out, but he’s still jerking off, can hear the hard edge of his hand hitting the disc of his pelvis quietly.

'First you want to hear me, then you want me to shut up, way to give a guy conflicting feelings,’ Patrick grumbles, mostly for show.

'Fuck yourself,’ Saader says. 'Just one finger at first, don’t add another one until I tell you.’

Patrick almost swallows his tongue, but his dick jumps in his grip. It’s been a long time since he’s put anything up his ass while jerking off, and he doesn’t miss it, exactly, but, well. He likes it. Always has.

'I will if you will,’ he says, pushing back at Saader a little, to see what happens.

'Way ahead of you, old man,’ Saader says, and Patrick hears the tension in his voice and Jesus  _Christ_.

'You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, kid,’ he says, and slicks his index finger up, reaching down to scrape it over his perineum before pressing against the ring of muscle down there. His breath catches as he pushes in, and his eyes slide closed. He can hear Saader’s short breaths and he can only imagine what the kid looks like, flushed and working himself open just like Patrick is. 

He crooks his finger, tugs at the rim gently and pulls out, drizzles more lube before shoving two fingers in, scissoring them, less worried about being careful, and more about the sounds coming out of the phone, cut off little whines. Fuck, but he wants to hold Saader down and be the one making him whimper like that.

Patrick’s mouth has fallen open slightly as he stretches himself open and his back arches when he hits the cluster of nerves with the pad of his finger, and he forgets all about being quiet, says, ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ louder than he means, draws the word out until it tapers off into a wordless sound.

'You know, I’d fuck you if I was there,’ Saader says, and Patrick doesn’t know how he can sound so filthy and so conversational at the same time, like he’s ordering dinner or something.

'Oh, really?’ Patrick says, aiming for the same casual tone and falling a little short, judging by the laughter curling into the edges of Saader’s voice.

'Yep. I’d eat you out first though. Have you ever been rimmed?’

Patrick’s eyes close again, and he throws his head back to hit the pillow. ‘No,’ he says eventually, gritting his teeth as he adds a third finger, pumping them in and out.

'But you want me to, right?’

'Fuck,’ Patrick says again. ’ _Fuck_ , yes.’

Saader makes a satisfied sound in the back of his throat. ‘I knew it,’ he says, and then sucks a sharp breath in, parrots Patrick’s, ‘Fuck,’ back at him. ‘Are you close?’ he asks.

Patrick crooks his fingers again, and thumbs at the head of his dick with his other hand, curls his toes in the bedsheets. He hums a yes and gasps as he twists his fingers and fucks up into the circle of his hand at the same time. ‘Yes, fuck, yes, I’m close,’

'God,’ Saader says. 'I bet you look so fucking good, Patrick. I’d take pictures of you fucking yourself if I was there, show you how fucking good you look, spread out and stretched around your own hand.’

Patrick makes a truly embarrassing sound and comes, spills into his own hand and cries out as his muscles spasm around his fingers. In the distance, he’s vaguely aware of Saader making a strangled, high pitched sound down the phone, swearing breathlessly.

Patrick pulls his fingers out, wipes them half-heartedly on his shirt and readjusts his earbuds.

They lie in silence for a few moments. Patrick scowls at his t-shirt, striped with come, and he peels it off, uses it to clean himself up properly before dropping it into the pile with the rest of his clothes. He rolls off the bed, phone in hand and pulls on another pair of jeans, a clean t-shirt, drops into his desk chair lightly, feeling the dull ache in his ass that will probably hurt more tomorrow.

'You still alive, kid?’ he asks, teasing.

'Just about,’ Saader says. 'You’ve got no room to talk, you sounded like you were dying when you came. Also, you came first, old man. Nice stamina.’

Patrick stretches, feels his back pop and opens his bedroom window. It smells like sex and come, and he doesn’t particularly want to answer questions about it when his mom and brother get back.

'I should go check on dinner,’ he says eventually, standing up and sliding his phone into his pocket.

'Someone’s got you well trained,’ Saader says, and that cocky tone of voice is the sort of thing that should drive Patrick crazy, but mostly it makes him want to chirp back.

'Jealous, kid?’

Saader snorts. ‘Sure, Sharpy. I’m super jealous.’

'Did I entertain you sufficiently?’ Patrick asks, unlocking his bedroom door and heading for the closest bathroom.

Saader hums like he’s thinking hard. ‘Not sure. Maybe I’ll call again next time I get bored and we can test the method again.’

Patrick feels daring. ‘You know, I have skype. Much like the rest of the world in this glorious year of 2014.’

'Is that so?’ Saader says. Patrick can hear him smiling. 'Maybe I’ll just text you my skype address then.’

Patrick knocks the tap on and starts washing his hands. He can hear Saader moving around on the other end of the phone. ‘Maybe I’ll give you a call some time, then,’ Patrick says.

'You do that, Sharpy,’ Saader says, and then hangs up. Patrick takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at it for a minute or so, before unplugging his headphones and heading for the kitchen, stooping down to ruffle Shooter’s ears when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

He doesn’t know whether he will call Saader. Maybe Saader will call him. Patrick can still feel the ache in his ass as he bends over to check in the oven, and he thinks that he wouldn’t be at all opposed to a repeat performance sometime. He phone beeps with a text from ‘Manchild’, and sure enough, it’s Saader’s skype info. Patrick saves the text to his notes and starts getting tomatoes out of the fridge for a salad, humming absent mindedly.

Yeah, he’s definitely gonna give Saader a call in a couple of days.

 


	16. Knight/Kessel, X Files AU

There is not a big enough cup of coffee in the world for Amanda to be willing to deal with Knight’s shit this early in the morning. There’s a cardboard folder sitting on her desk with a pink, heart shaped post-it note that just says “ALIENS :D” on it. 

Amanda sighs, and goes to refill her mug. 

‘There’s no such thing as aliens,’ she tells Knight, who’s lurking by the fridge with Coyne.

Knight smiles. ‘Morning, Mandy!’

'It’s not aliens,’ she repeats, taking a banana from the bunch on top of the fridge.

'Did you look at the file?’

'Well… no, not yet, but that’s besid-’

Then you don’t know it’s not aliens. Trust me, Kess,’ Knight says, waggling her eyebrows. ‘It’s a good one.’

She also steals Amanda’s coffee on the way out of the breakroom. Amanda scowls at the fruit bowl and goes back to her desk.

-

Knight is making a paper aeroplane and slurping Amanda’s coffee. Amanda flips another page of the file thoughtfully.

'Hmm,’ she says, flips another page.

'Told you it was aliens,’ Knight says, closing one eye and squinting as she aims the aeroplane for Chu’s mug.

'It’s not aliens,’ Amanda says.

Knight snorts, and then has to make a hasty retreat from the wrath of Chuey, who apparently doesn’t appreciate the splashes of coffee on her white blouse.

-

One trip to the crime scene later, and Amanda is forced to conclude that there are no immediate suspects that leap out at her. As far as she can tell, the girl just up and vanished into thin air.

'I’m telling you, Mandy,’ Knight says, lounging on the car bonnet. 'Starts with 'a’, ends in 'liens’.’

'Get in the car,’ Amanda says, pulling up a number on her phone.

-

'Well…’ Phil says, tinny through the phone line.

'Don’t say it,’ Amanda says, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. 'Please don’t say the A word.’

'…okay,’ Phil says, and then says nothing.

Amanda groans. ‘ _Phil._ ’

'You told me not to say aliens!’ Phil says, defensive.

'Oh my god,’ says Amanda. 'You are the worst brother ever.’

-

If there is a God, He must spend his days laughing at Amanda.

'A shapeshifter,’ she says.

'Yep,’ Knight says, popping the 'p’. She looks delighted. Amanda quashes her murderous urges.

'The girl was a shapeshifter.’

'Uh-huh,’ Knight says. If possible, her grin gets even bigger.

'I hate my job,’ Amanda says, putting her head on the desk.

'At least it wasn’t aliens,’ Knight says, patting her on the back as she wanders past.

'I hate  _you_ ,’ Amanda says.

'Lies,’ Knight singsongs. 'Hideous terrible untrue lies.’

Amanda lifts her head long enough to pull a face at her. Knight just blows a kiss back, and starts making another paper aeroplane.

 


	17. Briere/Giroux, Apodyopis

Claude doesn’t, strictly speaking, believe in hell, but if it exists, that’s definitely where he’s going to end up.

It goes like this:

He gets called up while he’s in the shower, and thirty minutes later is in a taxi to the training rink.

Thirty minutes after that, he’s strapping his pads on in a stall with his name on, and Carts keeps grinning at him like he cant believe it.

‘ _I remember my first practice with an NHL team. Scary, but still the best feeling in the world,’_  the older guy in the stall next to him says in French, offering Claude his hand. ‘Danny. Brière.’

Claude shakes his hand in silence, glances down at their clasped hands and sees corded muscles in Brière’s forearm. When he looks back up, Brière is smiling at him. ‘Giroux? It’s Québécois, non?’ he says.

Claude nods, then says, ‘Yeah, oui, yes,’ and blushes. Brière has a nice smile, he notes, spreading all the way to his eyes, where the skin crinkles. He looks younger when he smiles, Claude thinks, before Stevens bangs the shaft of his stick against the door to the rink, and the whole team chatters aimlessly as they file out, throwing the odd chirp.

Practice is uneventful. Claude doesn’t embarrass himself, and he scores a nice backhand against Niittymaki in the shootout and is grinning when he heads off the ice into the locker room.

Brière has his back to him as he strips off his pads, and Claude tries not to look, he really does, but, well, he’s known he was gay since he was fifteen, and he can see the muscles in Brière’s back shifting, even through the thin shirt he’s wearing under his pads.

Claude averts his eyes as Danny turns his head, and heads for his stall silently, tugging his helmet off and shaking his head, sending droplets of sweat and water flying.

‘Gosse,’ Brière says, wiping at his face, but he’s laughing, and there’s that smile again, Claude thinks, pulling his jersey over his head. That smile is going to be a problem.

Brière sits down to unlace his skates, and Claude lets himself stare at the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck for exactly three seconds before he turns around and busies himself by pulling his elbow pads off and dumping them on the floor next to his helmet. 

The next time he looks up, Brière’s heading for the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, and Claude can see three lines of curling script just at the bottom of his ribcage. He can also see the outline of Brière’s ass, the towel doing about as much to hide it as the underarmour was, and Claude sighs, resigns himself to spending the rest of the season doing everything he can not to stare at the guy who’s probably about old enough to be his father, and sits down to unlace his skates.

He feels like it’s going to be a long year.


	18. Saad/Sharp, kink negotiation

‘Have you done this before?’ Patrick asks, tugging on the tie around his right wrist. It’s a little slack for Patrick’s liking, too easy to slip off. He wonders if Brandon did that on purpose.

'All the time,’ Brandon says from where he’s straddling Patrick’s hips, rocking back and forth gently. He rubs a thumb over one of Patrick’s nipples. Patrick shivers, and then tilts his head, looking up at him.

'Wait, who with?’

Brandon doesn’t answer, runs the flat of his hand down Patrick’s ribs while his other hand finishes unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt. It’s oddly cold, but Patrick’s not complaining. Brandon’s already stripped down to his undershirt. Patrick watches the muscles in his shoulders move as he plants one hand on Patrick’s sternum and leans down to mouth at the line of his jaw.

'Is this okay?’ Brandon asks, nipping at his pulse point gently.

'Yep,’ Patrick manages. 'Totally fine, a-okay, please don’t ever stop doing that.’ He can feel Brandon grinning before he fastens his mouth over Patrick’s collarbone and sucks a sharp red mark there. Patrick’s arms jerk, and the headboard rattles. Brandon lifts his head.

'Are you sure this is okay, babe?’ he asks. His voice is a little rough, and Patrick mentally curses as Brandon climbs off him.

'Was I not clear enough when I told you that I wanted you to tie me up and fuck me until I can’t breathe?’ Patrick asks, and he knows he sounds a little short, but he’s hard enough to pound nails, and he just really, really needs Brandon to touch him like  _five minutes ago_.

'I’m just making sure,’ Brandon says, a little quiet, a little sullen.

'I know that,’ Patrick says soothingly. 'But we talked about this. At length. You made a list. It’s up on the fridge. You should probably take it down before the guys arrive tonight, actually. I have a safeword, and I know when to use it.’ He twists his neck and leans over, careful of the pull in his shoulders, to press a kiss to the jut of Brandon’s wrist. 'Would it make you feel better if I went over the rules?’

'Maybe,’ Brandon mutters, refusing to meet Patrick’s eyes, but he does move closer to him, so he counts it as a win.

'No permanent marks,’ Patrick starts. 'If I say no, or stop, or don’t, at any point, it doesn’t matter whether I mean it or not, we stop. I have to tell you if anything you do hurts, no matter how little. If it looks or sounds like it hurts, you wait for me to say green before continuing. Yellow is slow down. Red is stop. If I can’t talk, two knocks on the headboard for yes, three for no. Afterwards, we talk through everything, what was good, what was bad, what either of us can do to make it better.’ He pauses. 'Did I miss anything?’

Brandon is smiling down at him fondly. ‘I love you,’ he says, and leans in for a kiss.

When they break apart, Patrick grins up at him, and shifts his hips. ‘Does that mean you’ll fuck me now?’

'I guess that might be okay,’ Brandon says, thumbing at Patrick’s lower lip before kissing him again, slow and soft and teasing, hand slipping down to brush over the mark from before, scraping fingernails over his nipple and down the grooves of his abs. He pulls Patrick’s underwear off slowly before stripping his own shirt and boxers off, dumping them all over the side of the bed in a pile.

He bypasses Patrick’s dick completely to press his thumb into a fading bite mark on his thigh. Patrick hisses, shifts his hips again, folds his hands into fists.

'You’re so impatient,’ Brandon tells him between kisses, before pulling away completely, moving down to the foot of the bed and nudging Patrick’s thighs apart.

He ducks his head quickly, and Patrick feels his stubble scratching at the soft skin on the inside of his thighs, feels Brandon’s hands tugging his cheeks open so he can press a single kiss on the ring of muscle there, tongue just flicking out to barely touch him.

Patrick makes a very embarrassing sound, and Brandon laughs, blowing warm air onto Patrick. He shudders, cants his hips in an attempt to get Brandon to touch him again, digs his heels into the sheets. 

One of the first things Patrick noticed about Brandon was his hands, broad and wide, with strong, long fingers. They’re currently wrapped around his hips, holding him open and keeping him still while he escalates to short, sharp licks directly over his rim, enough pressure to drive Patrick crazy, but not enough for anything to really build. They get longer and longer, until the tip of his tongue is nudging at the sensitive skin behind his balls, running all the way across his perineum before he feels it pushing inside of him, slowly, agonisingly.

He groans, loud and pained, and Brandon stops, looks up at him sharply, and Patrick gets enough of his wits about him to gasp, ‘Green, green,’before Brandon smiles, dips his head back down and goes back to marking Patrick from ass to knee with beard burn. His thumb is just inside Patrick, just enough that he knows it’s there, just catching on the rim.

He’s pretty sure he’s leaving indents in the palms of his hands, they’re fisted so tightly. 

He’s whining pretty insistently when Brandon lifts his head up again, presses a kiss to the raw skin on Brandon’s left thigh before reaching for the lube and slicking his fingers up.

He closes his mouth around the head of Patrick’s dick at the same time as he pushes two fingers inside him smoothly, tongues at the slit and crooks his fingers to knock firmly against Patrick’s prostate, sending sparks up his spine.

Patrick arches his back, throws his head back into the pillow and closes his eyes. Brandon just slings an arm across Patrick’s lower belly and swallows him down. Patrick comes when he feels Brandon’s nose brushing against him, three fingers inside him down.

Brandon swallows every drop, and pulls off, looking fucking wrecked. His lips are swollen and wine red, and his pupils are so dilated Patrick can barely see the blue in them. When he kisses him, he tastes like Patrick.

'Good?’ he asks. Patrick nods into the kiss, eyes sliding shut again. 'How do you feel?’

Brandon shifts up so he can untie Patrick’s wrists. He’s still hard, dick flushed and painful looking. As soon as Patrick’s hands are free he’s reaching for Brandon, one on his shoulder and one on his hip, turning him to Patrick’s on top, kissing him and wrapping a hand around him, stroking once, twice, three times, until he bites Brandon’s lip and feels him shake apart silently, every muscle tensing as he stripes his stomach and Patrick’s hand with come. 

They’re both breathing hard when Brandon comes back down. ‘You never answered my question,’ Brandon says, shoving at Patrick until he rolls over.

'I feel like I just came harder than I’ve done in a long time,’ Patrick says, snide but he kisses Brandon’s shoulder to take the bite out of it. 'I’m fine. Better than.’

'So,’ Brandon says, shy suddenly. He ducks his head to stare at the come on Patrick’s chest. 'Can we do it again sometime, maybe?’

Patrick laughs. Brandon swats at him.

'Next time, maybe you can even fuck me,’ Patrick says. He noses underneath Brandon’s jaw, kissing at his Adam’s apple. 'You’ve gotta ask real nicely though, babe.’

Brandon shoves at him again, but slings an arm around him and settles closer, and he’s asleep on top of Patrick before he can do anything about it. He reaches for his shirt and gives them a cursory wipe down before setting his phone alarm for a couple of hours time and turning into Brandon, tucking his head into the space underneath his chin and dozing off easily.


	19. Lady Carey Price

She wears a red dress to the draft. She realises afterwards that it’s the exact same shade as the jersey she pulls over her head. 

She’s the highest drafted female goaltender in NHL history. She’s not stupid enough to think that she’s made it yet, not even close, but she shoves the ball cap on over her hair and smiles wide for the photos, and when her phone buzzes with a text from Stoner, just a row of smiley faces and ‘welcome to the big time, pricey’, she feels like maybe she  _can_ make it.

-

Playing for the Bulldogs is great, once they’ve gotten over having to share a locker room with a woman. She only plays a couple of games, but she only gets called a bitch once on the ice, so she calls that a win in and of itself.

-

She gives exactly two interviews with the Bulldogs. The first one asks her her dress size, and the second asks her why she doesn’t have a boyfriend.

She doesn’t think she gets enough credit for not punching either of them out, really.

-

She starts the next season with the Canadiens, knows it probably won’t last, but works her ass off anyway because if she gets sent back down, it’s sure as shit not going to be because of her save percentage.

She does get sent back down, in the end, but she only plays ten games before she gets called back up.

She’s between the pipes against the Rangers when she’s suddenly, acutely aware that this is it, for her. She stops forty three shots that night, gets first star, and Lundqvist says, ‘Good job, kid,’ in the handshake line. ‘Keep it up.’

(She’s the first Canadiens rookie to post a playoff shutout since Roy, and she doesn’t play another AHL game after that season. She’s made it.)

-

She meets PK Subban by accident.

She’s late for morning skate, gunning the engine into the Bell Centre parking lot when some kid in a toque and a cardigan pretty much steps out in front of her. She brakes so hard she spills her coffee in her lap, and that’s his first mistake.

‘What the fuck, asshole?’ she shouts out of the window at him, and he actually grins and waves. Mistake two.

'You’re Carey Price,’ he says, bouncing up to the passenger window of her truck, still smiling like an idiot. 'I’m PK. Subban, I just got called up last night.’

'Great,’ Carey says. 'You owe me caffeine.’

'Are you asking me out for coffee?’ PK asks, actually  _getting in the car_. 

'Okay, kid, strike three. Get out of my car, and for the love of god, stop being so happy.’

PK tilts his head. ‘Aren’t we going to the same place?’

'Ugh,’ Carey says. 'Fine.’

-

After practice, she finds a can of iced coffee in her stall.

PK is in the shower, singing loudly and out of tune.

Carey smiles without really meaning to.


	20. Sid/Geno, Ace Sid

So here’s the thing. Sid… doesn’t have sex.

Not because he can’t, okay, he could go out and have sex right now if he wanted to. He  _could_.

He just… doesn’t want to. Hasn’t ever.

It’s not a big deal, okay?

Or, at least, it hasn’t ever been a big deal.

-

He meets Evgeni Malkin at Mario’s house.

He has long limbs and a shy smile and he doesn’t speak a word of English beyond ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Sid butchers his name and they sit in silence next to each other for the entire meal.

Things go downhill from there.

-

Another fact about Sidney Crosby: he really, really loves kissing. Like, a lot.

Kissing is  _great_. He loves kissing girls with soft curves and softer lips who feel small underneath his hands, and he loves kissing boys with hard planes of muscle and three days of stubble, and he loves kissing all the people in between.

So what if he never picks up at bars and gets chirped nonstop by Flower (which: unfair, because he’s been with Veronique for like a million years, he never has to put up with this)? Sometimes he gets to make out with cute bartenders in a staff corridor when he gets lost trying to find the bathroom, and sometimes he has two beers and goes home to watch the highlights of that nights games. Either way, he’s happy.

-

Playing with Geno is… amazing. Sid doesn’t really know how else to put it. He’s a natural center, but he plays on Sid’s wing like he was born there, slots in effortlessly, and Geno scores at least one goal in each of his first six games. Sid feels like he’s relearning the whole game, watching him play.

-

Sid has a standing date with a girl in the front office. Sarah, she’s called, and she’s great. The dates are great, too. They go out for dinner, and then they go back to one of their apartments (his one week, hers the next. Alternating means they can take it in turns to drive home afterwards) and they just make out for a couple of hours, until their lips are swollen and oversensitive and there’s a really dumb smile on Sid’s face.

Sometimes, but not always, she leaves small, faint bruises in a line down his throat, and he scrapes his teeth over her collarbone, leaves a mark there in return.

It’s always a good night, is what he’s saying here.

-

Sid goes out with the team to a bar maybe once a month, always the same bar, always after a win, he has one beer, makes the rounds as Captain, has another beer, makes the rounds as Sid, and goes home.

It’s a system, it’s a routine, as much as anything he does to prepare for a game.

Tonight they lost the Stanley Cup final.

They sit crowded in a booth staring into their beers.

Geno is curled away from Sid, talking to Gonch in quiet Russian. Sid understands maybe one word in twenty. 

He flips his phone open and clicks to Sarah’s number. It’s not Friday, but he thinks maybe she’d understand. He’s halfway through his text when Geno nudges him.

‘Sid okay?’ he asks.

'I will be,’ he says, nudges Geno back, and smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but neither does Geno’s, so it’s okay, Sid thinks.

-

Over the summer, Sarah gets a job in Seattle.

She doesn’t tell him until she’s already left.

Sid texts Geno occasionally and gets replies in broken English, and trains and trains and trains.

He doesn’t ever want to be on the same ice as the Stanley Cup if he’s not the one hoisting it ever again.

-

The season starts well.

They always do though, don’t they?

Sid plays hockey and talks to Geno and goes out with the team for two beers before going home to bed. It’s just what he does.

Except right now, he’s out with the team, and he’s halfway through his fourth beer, and he feels like he’s listing a little sideways. Jordy shoves at him idly and steals his beer. Geno is leaning against him on his other side, warm and solid. He glances around when Sid makes a too-late grab for his beer, laughs at Sid’s pout.

'Kid stealing beer?’ Sid nods, reaches for Geno’s glass. Geno holds it out of his reach, and actually laughs when Sid makes a pathetic noise, slumping back into his seat.

Geno finishes his drink, and stands up, planting a huge hand on Sid’s shoulder to keep him mostly upright. ‘Gonna go,’ he says to Tanger, who nods very seriously before whispering something in French to Flower. ‘Gonna take Sid home before fall asleep.’

He grabs Sid by the elbow and hoists him out of his chair. ‘Come on, Sid. Home!’

Sid allows himself to be shuffled out of the bar and into the passenger seat of Geno’s ridiculous sports car.

'Your car is ridiculous,’ he informs Geno, who wrinkles his nose at Sid and starts the engine.

'I miss Sarah.’ Sid didn’t mean to say that, but, well, there it is. Geno glances at him.

'Who Sarah?’

Sid shrugs. ‘My not-girlfriend,’ he says, and Geno frowns.

'Not-girlfriend? Not understand.’

'We weren’t dating,’ Sid clarifies. 'Not really.’

'So fuckbuddies,’ Geno says, looking less confused. 'How long for?’

'No,’ Sid says slowly. 'Not fuckbuddies. Like…’ he pauses. 'Make out… buddies?’

'Sid not dating Sarah, not fucking Sarah. Just… kissing?’ Geno asks.

'I like kissing,’ Sid says, and then decides he might as well go for broke. 'I don’t like sex.’

'With Sarah?’

'With anyone,’ Sid says. 'Boys or girls.’

'Huh,’ Geno says. 'Okay.’ He keeps driving.

'Making out fun,’ he says a couple of minutes later. Sid blinks out of his doze.

'Yeah,’ he says. 'Lots of fun.’

'Make out with boys?’

Sid pauses. ‘Sometimes.’

Geno nods like he’s considering things.

'Make out with me some time?’

A longer pause this time. Geno turns a corner idly.

'Okay,’ Sid says, eventually.

Geno smiles like the sun is rising. He pulls the car off the road. ‘We here,’ he says. Sid looks around and, oh.

Mario’s guesthouse is in the shadows. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘For the lift. And the… offer.’

Geno grins again, and darts forward to press a quick kiss on Sid’s lips. ‘Goodnight, Sid, see tomorrow at practice.’

-

At first, Sid thinks it’s going to be a one time thing only. They make out, have a lot of fun, eventually Geno gets bored of not getting off, and they part ways. Except not. Because they’re still on the same team. On the same line, even.

Fuck.

Sid texts Jack when he comes to that conclusion.  _i think i did something very stupid_ _  
_

_Almost definitely. What’s up?_

_i think geno asked to be my fuckbuddy except without fucking and i said yes_

Sid’s phone rings.

'You’re an idiot,’ Jack says.

'I know,’ Sid says, putting his head on the kitchen counter. 'What do I do?’

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. 

'Jack,’ Sid says.

'Make the most of it?’ Jack says eventually. He sounds a lot like he’s trying not to laugh. Sid hangs up and texts him saying  _you are worse than useless_. 

Jack texts back a string of smileys and kisses. Sid hates him.

His phone beeps again.  _diner tonite 8 ))))_. It’s from Geno. Of course.

Sid puts his head back on the kitchen counter for a couple of seconds before texting back  _sure!_

_-_

Dinner turns out to be takeout that isn’t in their diet plan and Geno throwing caution to the winds and kissing Sid over his carton of noodles.

Sid drops his chopsticks, but kisses back, breaking away only to put his food out of knocking-over range and planting his hands on Geno’s neck, thumbs at the base of his throat. Geno’s a good kisses, he discovers very quickly, pushy in a way that Sarah never had been, and when he puts his hands on Sid’s hips and pushes him onto his back to drape himself over the top, Sid can feel the strength of a two hundred pound body holding him down.

Geno likes to leave more marks than Sarah ever did, Sid also finds out, when he sucks a sharp, red mark into Sid’s pulse point, and another in the dip of his collarbone, scraping his teeth over the skin stretched there.

Sid bites back, leaves tiny red marks along the ridge of his jaw as he nips his way across to Geno’s earlobe, sinking his teeth in gently and listening to Geno hiss, feeling his hands tighten on Sid’s hips.

He never once tries to take it any further, is content to let Sid set the pace and the tone, and he never moves his hands away from Sid’s hips.

In short, it’s way better than it has any right to be, especially when they part, lips swollen, pupils blown, and Geno just tugs Sid to lie between his thighs, head on his chest, and they fall asleep on the couch like that.

Sid wakes up in the morning with a stiff back and a smile on his face and can’t bring himself to move, just feels the slow rise and fall of Geno’s chest before his alarm goes off and they both jump and topple off the couch.

-

Sid quickly learns a lot of things about Geno in a very short space of time.

He learns that Geno drinks coffee in the evening and tea in the morning. He learns that he’s allergic to peanuts, and that he calls his mother every day, and that he’s afraid of spiders.

He also learns what sound Geno makes when Sid tugs on his lower lip with his teeth (high pitched and surprised), and what he looks like when Sid kisses him awake (soft and rumpled and smiling, always smiling) and what his lips feel like brushing against the nape of Sid’s neck when he’s not paying attention (delicate and a little ticklish).

He wonders sometimes if Geno misses sex. Wonders if he wants to get it from somewhere else, but when he asks him one time, when they’re lying in bed, Sid’s chin hooked over Geno’s shoulder and one hand idly scratching at his lower belly with blunt fingernails,  Geno turns around to face him and presses a long kiss to his forehead.

'Only want Sid,’ Geno says, pulls him closer. 'Can take or leave sex. If you not want sex, then can live without.’

'I love you,’ Sid says, and flushes. Geno grins and kisses him again, hard and open mouthed and thorough.

'Love you too. Now sleep. Sid grumpy when you don’t get beauty sleep.’

Sid pulls a face at him, but shifts until they’re tangled together again, and falls asleep smiling.


	21. Saad/Smith, college AU

The room is spinning. Brandon is very, very drunk, but he’s almost positive that those two facts are unrelated.

‘The room is spinning,’ he says to whoever is sitting next to him.

'Yep,’ Shawsy agrees cheerfully, stealing Brandon’s beer and taking off across the room. Brandon makes immediate plans to murder him, once he can figure out how to make his legs work. He’s scowling at them when a hand waves a glass of clear liquid in front of his face, and he looks up at Smitty, who’s grinning.

'Hey!’ Brandon says, taking the glass (water,  _boring)_  and setting it aside, tugging Smitty into the seat next to him.

'Hey, buddy,’ Smitty says easily, sliding into the seat and sprawling a little. 'You having a good time?’

Brandon grins up at him. ‘It’s my birthday!’ he says. Smitty nods, thoughtfully.

He nudges the water closer. Brandon eyes it. He is highly suspicious.

'If you drink the water you can have another beer,’ Smitty says, producing one from… somewhere. Brandon scowls, and picks up the glass, sips at it mutinously.

Smitty is warm against his side. Across the room, Shawsy is trying to talk Bolly into doing a shot of something ominously green, with mixed results. Duncs and Seabs are perched on a single armchair, throwing bottle caps at Kaner and Tazer, who appear to be trying to meld into one person joined at the tonsils. Brandon pulls a face, and leans into Smitty, who brings an arm up around his shoulders automatically.

He’s  _really_  warm against Brandon.

'You’re hot,’ Brandon says suddenly. 'I mean, you're… not hot, warm, not that you’re not hot, I’m sure there are lots of people that think you’re hot. Um.’ He pauses. 'I’m drunk.’

'Just a little bit,’ Smitty says, nudging at him with his elbow. 'Come on, birthday boy. Let’s get you home.’

Home is all of three doors down, but he lets Smitty haul him up, and they do the rounds of the guys there, lots of backslaps and hugs (and assgrabs, from Shawsy. Brandon despairs.).

Brandon is not in the worst shape, he thinks (hopes), but Smitty keeps a tight grip on his elbow until he leans Brandon against the wall next to the dorm room he shares with Shawsy, pats at his pockets until he finds the key.

Smitty stumbles going into the room, and they end up on the carpet in a  tangle of limbs, Brandon’s nose digging into Smitty’s collarbone. He has really nice cologne on, Brandon notices. ‘You smell nice,’ he says, propping himself up on his elbows.

Smitty laughs. ‘Thanks,’ he says. His breath tickles Brandon’s temple.

Brandon wants to kiss him, so he does. It’s messy and off-centre and Brandon is about 80% sure he’s using 100% too much teeth, but Smitty makes a small, pleased sound and puts his hands on Brandon’s hips for a second before he makes another, slightly panicked sound, pushes at Brandon until he moves back.

'You’re drunk,’ he says, eyes wide. 'I’m a bad person.’

'Shhhh,’ Brandon says. 'Kissing, not talking,’ and moves back in. Smitty shoves at him again until he rolls off him and they lie side by side on the floor of Brandon’s dorm room, door still wide open. The noise from the party leaks in from down the hall. 

Brandon kicks at the door until it swings mostly closed. It only takes him three attempts. He’s very proud. He turns his attention back to Smitty, who looks guilty.

'You don’t want to kiss me?’ Brandon asks.

'No, no, I do, I really do,’ Smitty says, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Brandon. 'You’re very drunk though.’

'Not drunk enough that I can’t-’ Brandon starts, glancing downward, but his brain catches up with him, and he cuts himself off. It startles a laugh out of Smitty.

'I’m going to kiss you again,’ Brandon says after a moment.

Smitty licks his lips. ‘Okay,’ he says, and then grins. ‘I’m on top this time,’ he says, and rolls forward, pressing Brandon into the carpet and kissing him soundly.

Brandon smiles into the kiss. He figures they have maybe half an hour before Shawsy passes out and has to be carried to bed by Bolly, and he’s prepared to make the most of it.


	22. Drouin/Mackinnon, handholding

Nate likes to hold hands. 

He has really big hands, and they’re always warm, and Jo has terrible circulation, okay? It doesn’t have to be a thing. He’s just taking advantage of his best friend’s obscene body temperature to stop his own hands from falling off. It’s so, so not a thing.

It’s totally a thing.

-

They’ve been holding hands regularly for like four months when Jo realises that this might not be strictly bros. They’re watching terrible TV together in a hotel room, Nate settled between the vee of Jo’s legs, head resting on his collarbone. his hair smells like coconut. Their hands are laced together, and Nate is running a thumb across the backs of Jo’s knuckles absent mindedly.

Jo rests the point of his chin in Nate’s hair, and shifts until he’s comfortable.

He doesn’t realise Nate’s fallen asleep until he starts to snore.

Jo thinks it’s cute.

Then he thinks, ‘Oh no.’

-

Because Jo is Jo, and Nate is Nate, they don’t talk about it.

Or rather, Jo doesn’t talk about it.

He tells himself it’s because it’s nothing, that it’ll go away if he stops thinking about it and Nate will go back to being just his best friend and not… more.

He doesn’t tell himself that he’s staying quiet because he doesn’t want to stop.

-

The fourth time they fall asleep together, Jo has one thigh shoved in between Nate’s legs and his head buried in the folds of the truly massive hooded sweatshirt he’s wearing. He wakes up hard, and panics, just a little bit. He thinks, 'Nate, Nate, this is Nate, not anyone else,  _your best friend Nate_.’ _  
_

It doesn’t help.

He thanks God Nate sleeps like a corpse, and untangles himself, pads into the bathroom and scowls at himself in the mirror for at least forty five seconds before turning the shower on.

-

They win the Cup.

_They win the Cup._

Nate grabs at his hand, tugging him around the ice. Everyone is yelling.

Fuc barrels at them in his pads, grinning like his face is splitting in half.

It’s overwhelming, is what it is, thinks Jo. But he has Nate’s hand in his and he can feel his pulse jumping out at him, and  _they just won the Memorial Cup_.

-

Nate kisses him at the NHL combine.

From the look on his face afterwards, it’s just as much a shock to him as it is to Jo.

'Um,’ he says. He has his fingers wrapped around the delicate bones in Jo’s wrist.

'It’s okay,’ Jo says. 'Me too.’

Nate smiles. It’s like watching the sun rise. He squeezes Jo’s wrist, just barely, and leans in again.

(Jo ends up wearing Nate’s shorts at the testing. It’s horrifically embarassing. He makes up a lie about his own shorts being way too big that exactly no one buys. He can see Nate laughing at him from across the room. He can’t believe he’s in love with this dumb fuck, honestly.)


	23. PK/Pricey, goalie PK

During a stoppage in play, PK sidles up to the penalty box and taps on it with the butt of his stick.

Pricey is sitting on the other side of the glass, scowling. If this was a cartoon, PK is pretty sure smoke would be coming out of his ears.

‘You’re an idiot,’ PK says. Pricey scowls harder.

'He had it coming,’ he says. 'The bastard’s been yapping at you all night.’

'So you knocked two of his teeth out.’ PK says.

'He had it coming,’ Pricey insists. PK rolls his eyes.

'You’re a menace,’ he tells Pricey. 'Stop giving them powerplays.’

Pricey looks unrepentant.

-

You don’t do this when Buds is playing,’ he says next game, during intermission. 'Do you think I need more practice on 5-on-4 or something?’

Pricey is taping and retaping his stick, glaring at it like it’s the source of all evil in the universe. He’s chewing on the stitches in the corner of his mouth. He says nothing.

PK swats him in the back of the head with his glove. 'You’ll rip your stitches.’

Pricey scowls at him.

-

Pricey has the most penalty minutes on the team. Prusty jokes that he’s gonna make it into a competition. PK doesn’t think his heart or his knees will be able to take that. Pricey chews on his gum and puts his headphones in, jumps on the static bike and starts warming up.

-

They have their own celly. It’s not a big deal, just something they do after a win. PK calls it the triple low five.

The media calls it egotistical, unprofessional.

Therrien calls it unacceptable for an on ice celebration.

They still do it, just on the way out of the locker room, just before they reach the cameras. It’s really the only time PK sees Pricey wear a genuine smile.

-

PK’s small for a goalie. He knows, okay. 

That doesn’t mean propping his stick on top of the door jamb where he can’t reach it is funny or cute.

He glares at the room as a whole. Pricey doesn’t even look up from where he’s doing his skates up.

'You’re all assholes,’ PK declares, and they laugh, start filing out of the room, passing under his stick. Pricey is the last one to leave, and he reaches up, tugs PK’s stick free and hands it over.

'Shortass,’ he rumbles, punching PK in the shoulder. 'Let’s fuckin’ kill em out there.’

-

Pricey gets tossed from the game for knocking a guy out.

In Pricey’s defence, he did run PK over.

In Kreider’s defence, there were three separate Habs up his ass and he had no other way to go.

PK’s bruised but fine.

Kreider has to be helped off the ice.

Pricey is still steaming in the locker room when they all file in for intermission. He has a swollen face and blood on his knuckles. Only about half of it is his own.

'You definitely don’t do this for Buds,’ PK says. Everyone in the room is very obviously Not Listening In. Subtle.

Pricey pulls a face.

'He shouldn’t have hit you,’ Pricey says.

'You’re an idiot,’ PK says.

'So you keep saying,’ Pricey says.

'Then stop being an idiot!’ PK thuds down onto the bench next to Pricey. 'I can fight my own battles.’

Pricey laughs at that. 'No you can’t. Remember when you tried to fight Fleury?’

PK scowls. 'Shut up.’

Pricey grins wide, and winces. PK elbows him. 'Go get your hands fixed up. You need those.’

-

They win the game, playing with five D, and Pricey’s there in the locker room in his suit afterwards, white bandages taped around his hands.

PK strips out of his bulky pads and nudges at him. 'Hey, drive me home?’

'Drive yourself home,’ Pricey says, but he hangs around for PK to shower and change, and doesn’t say anything when PK gets into the passenger seat is his frankly ridiculous pick up truck.

'Who drives a pick up truck in the middle of Montreal?’ PK asks.

'Me.’

'Why is there mud on the seat?’

Pricey shrugs. 'You want a lift or not?’

PK shuts up and shuts the door.

-

'You fought Kreider for me,’ PK says, when they’re sitting in his driveway.

'What’s your point?’

'Last week, you fought Lucic and he hadn’t even touched me.’

'He was running his mouth about you,’ Pricey says, sullen.

'Three weeks ago you–’

'What do you want, PK?’

'You realise this level of protectiveness isn’t normal, right?’

Pricey opens his mouth, and closes it again. Opens it again.

’…oh.’ He flushes slightly.

'You’re lucky I like you,’ PK says. 'Because normally I don’t date overprotective jackasses.’

Pricey pauses. 'Are we dating?’

PK rolls his eyes again, says, 'Thank god you’re pretty,’ and pushes forward to press his lips to Pricey’s. He doesn’t seem to object, so PK doesn’t pull away, and eventually Pricey’s hands get with the program, fit themselves to PK’s hips and tug him closer. PK grins into the kiss, and pulls away a little. 'Less of the caveman thing though, eh? The other team doesn’t need your help scoring on me during the power play, with you fuckups on the blue line.’

Pricey scrunches his face in objection, but accepts another kiss from PK, smiling like he can’t help himself.

 


	24. Saad/Sharp, daemon AU

Brandon’s used to people staring at him when he walks into a room, not because of him, but because of Sasha. She… kind of commands attention.

It gets better when he joins the Hawks, because professional athletes tend to have flashier daemons than the average person, but people still stare, a little.

It doesn’t help that there aren’t a lot of bird daemons on the team, just Sasha and Tazer’s owl and one of the Swedes has a raven. Tazer’s Tatiana’s beautiful, and terrifying, but Sasha is something else. It helps that she likes to meet new people by swooping over their heads.

‘Show-off,’ he murmurs, as she lands delicately on his shoulder.

‘People should pay attention to me,’ she says, and starts grooming her feathers. ‘People should pay attention to you, too.’

He flushes, and introduces the two of them to the guys in a more sedate manner.

He’s making small talk with a guy he met at training camp, Leddy, who’s daemon is a gorgeous fawn-coloured deer, Alicia, he calls her, when Sasha flutters her wings and takes off. He can feel the tug as she goes to the other side of the locker room. It’s fine. She’ll be further away for games. He glances around and sees her perched on a bench next to a fox daemon, Sharpy’s, he doesn’t remember her name. She starts pecking just behind one of her pointed ears, and Brandon realises she’s grooming her and that he’s lost track of this conversation entirely.

He apologises, and excuses himself, picks his way past where a couple of dog daemons are playfighting in the middle of the room, a bulldog, and something bigger, leaner. Keith and Seabrook, he thinks.

‘Are you making trouble?’ he asks Sasha, dropping onto the bench next to her. On the fox’s other side, Sharpy’s relacing a skate silently. He looks up when Brandon sits down, and smiles.

Sasha shakes her head. ‘Making friends. This is Eva.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ Brandon says, because his ma raised him right.

Eva looks up at him, and tilts her head. ‘You’re cute,’ she says. Brandon turns red. ‘Patrick, don’t you think he’s cute?’

‘I think you should leave the kid alone and stop embarrassing him,’ Sharpy– Patrick says, but he throws a grin Brandon’s way. ‘Welcome to the Madhouse,’ he says, holds out a hand. ‘Ignore Eva, she has no manners.’ He scratches her belly absent mindedly, and she rolls onto her side, sticking her tongue out. It’s remarkably dog-like.

Patrick smiles down at her when he’s done lacing the skate, and then the daemon liason for the Hawks comes in and shoos them all out. Sasha looks at him, unsure. In Saginaw, they’d been allowed to stay in the locker room all game. He doesn’t know if he likes the idea of her going further away, even though he’s had the same training as everyone else to stretch the link between them.

Patrick nudges him. ‘Hey. She’ll be fine. Eva’ll look after her, won’t you, sweetheart?’

‘Of course,’ she says, and climbs to her feet, puts her paws on Patrick’s chest to lick at his chin. ‘See you soon.’

Brandon kisses the top of Sasha’s head, and runs a knuckle down the plumage of her chest. ‘Be good, don’t get into trouble.’

‘Would I?’ she asks, and laughs, before hopping off his wrist and onto Eva’s shoulder.

Brandon watches her leave for an embarrassingly length of time. When the door shuts, he can still feel her, and that’s a little better.

‘Always sucks the first time,’ Patrick says, stripping his shirt off. ‘It gets easier.’

‘Thanks,’ Brandon says. ‘Everything’s kind of happening all at once. I’m just trying to keep up.’

Patrick punches him in the shoulder lightly. ‘You’re doing okay from where I’m sitting.’

Brandon smiles to himself, and returns to his own stall to start getting his gear on.

-

Sasha takes to Eva and Patrick like she took to the rafters in his rink at home; like a house on fire. Any time the team’s together she makes a beeline for them, perches somewhere and grooms Eva’s fur.

‘It’s the weirdest friendship ever,’ Shawsy says, wrestling with Toby on the floor of Brandon’s apartment. Sasha is in her usual place, balanced on the back of Brandon’s armchair, surveying her kingdom, she always says.

Brandon shrugs. ‘Eva’s friendly, and she likes Patrick too.’

Shawsy looks at him, upside down, red faced. ‘And what do you think of Patrick?’ he asks, leering.

‘You look constipated,’ Brandon informs him. ‘And we’re just friends. It’s… whatever. You have Toby-drool on your face.’

Toby looks at him. Brandon thinks she’s insulted, but, well, it’s hard to tell. ‘You’re very defensive,’ she says, nosing at Shawsy one last time before letting him up. He wipes his face on Brandon’s couch cushion. Ew.

‘You’re fooling exactly no one,’ Shawsy adds, draping himself over Brandon’s couch and stealing the remote. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell.’

Brandon looks at Sasha helplessly, but she’s cleaning her feathers, and thus is paying attention to nothing but herself.

-

Eva has Sasha pinned beneath her front paws, and she’s licking enthusiastically at the plumage on her chest. Sasha is squawking with indignation, but Brandon knows it’s mostly a front.

Patrick’s leaning against Brandon and laughing. He feels very warm through the thin material of Brandon’s t-shirt.

He catches Shawsy’s eye from across the room and ignores the stupid heart he makes with his thumbs and his forefingers.

-

As soon as Patrick’s lips touch Brandon’s, he hears, ‘Fucking finally,’ from the corner, where Eva is curled up in an armchair around Sasha, who’s grooming one of her ears carefully.

‘Quiet in the peanut gallery,’ Patrick says. ‘I’ll put you in the corridor, don’t you think that I won’t.’

Sasha laughs gently.

‘It’s not my fault you two dumbasses took so long to get with the picture,’ Eva continues.

Brandon snorts. Patrick looks at him, wounded. ‘I’ll put you in the corridor, too,’ he says. ‘Don’t push me.’

Brandon openly laughs at that, and kisses him again, hands on his hips.

‘In my defence,’ he says, when they part. ‘I was flirting with you for weeks before you took the hint. Don’t blame Eva.’

Patrick groans. ‘What have I done?’ he asks. ‘Because it looks to me like I’ve just adopted two more smartasses with big mouths to keep around.’

‘Looks that way,’ Brandon says, cheerfully. ‘I’m gonna kiss you again, by the way.’


	25. Saad/Duncs/Seabs, "babe, I'm busy, go snuggle with Seabs"

Here is a thing everyone needs to know about Brandon Saad. He loves to cuddle. It’s the best part of his day, okay?

He can’t believe he ended up in a relationship with someone who refuses to cuddle unless it’s for warmth, or immediately post sex.

‘Love me,’ he says, dropping down onto the sofa next to Duncs.

Duncs looks at him, confused. ‘But… I’m working?’ he says. It sounds like a question.

‘Multitask.’

Duncs sighs, and puts his pen down. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Cuddles,’ Brandon says, pouting.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Duncs says. He picks his pen up. ‘Go cuddle Seabs, he’s napping.’

Brandon scowls. ‘Fine.’

Seabs is in fact napping, when Brandon peers around the doorframe.

He wakes up when Brandon makes the bed creak. ‘What’s up, kid?’ he asks.

‘Duncs told me to cuddle you because he’s busy with his dumb paperwork,’ Brandon admits, sitting cross legged on the edge of the bed.

‘Oh,’ Seabs says, rolling over and closing his eyes again. ‘Fair enough.’ When Brandon doesn’t move, he opens one eye. ‘Are you coming, or not?’

Seabs is really warm, not as warm as Duncs but he’ll do. He has one hand cupping Brandon’s hip, and the other wrapped around his waist, and his nose is pressed against the dip in the base of Brandon’s skull.

Brandon drifts off without meaning to.

-

Brandon wakes up to the sound of a camera shutter.

‘You’re an asshole,’ he says, rolling over and coming face to face with Seabs, who’s wide awake.

‘You sleep a lot,’ he says, conversationally.

‘He does,’ Duncs agrees. Brandon glances over his shoulder.

‘Who are you sending that to?’ he asks.

‘All the guys,’ Duncs says, slipping his phone back in his pocket. On cue, Brandon’s phone chimes with an email.

‘You’re the worst boyfriend ever,’ Brandon says. ‘I’m leaving you, we’re breaking up.’

Duncs laughs. ‘I’m making food, you want something?’

‘Always,’ Seabs say, untangling himself from Brandon.

‘Wasn’t asking you,’ Duncs says, but he’s smiling, a little soft, that special Seabs smile that Brandon sees sometimes.

-

Brandon doesn’t mean for it to turn into a thing, but it kind of does.

Seabs is really big, and always warm, and way comfier than Duncs, if Brandon’s being honest, and he’s always around, and always willing.

Duncs keeps coming home to them asleep on the couch together and poking Brandon until he wakes up. Seriously, worst boyfriend ever.

-

‘Go away,’ Duncs says, burying his face in the pillow. Brandon bites at the nape of his neck gently.

‘Come  _on_ ,’ he whines. ‘We haven’t had sex in like three days, I miss you.’

‘I love you very much,’ Duncs says, muffled by the pillow. ‘But you will survive three days without sex. If you stop me from going to sleep, I might murder you.’

‘ _Duncan_ ,’ Brandon says, appalled. Duncs sighs and rolls over.

‘Babe,’ he starts. ‘It’s three am. I just finished working a double shift. I have to be back at work on four and a half hours.  _Please_  let me sleep.’

‘I’m gonna go fuck Seabs,’ Brandon says, mostly to get a rise out of him.

Duncs rolls over again, face first into the sheets. ‘Fine,’ he mumbles. ‘Be nice to him.’

Brandon stares.

‘What?’ he says eventually.

‘If I let you fuck Seabs, will you let me sleep?’ Duncs asks. He’s already half gone, his face all slack and unfocused. He’s slurring his words a little.

‘Um,’ Brandon says.

‘Either fuck him or don’t,’ Duncs says. ‘But I’m going to sleep. Get off or don’t. Just please leave me alone to sleep.’

Brandon scowls at him. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna go fuck Seabs. And it’s gonna be great. Enjoy your empty bed, old man.’

Duncs makes a pleased sound and rolls over again to take up all the covers. Brandon gets all the way to the door of the room before he doubles back to kiss him quickly. ‘Love you,’ he murmurs.

Duncs is already asleep.

-

Seabs is awake, and sprawled over the couch. He’s reading one of Brandon’s ridiculous fifty cent romance novels that he picks up by the box. It’s his guilty pleasure. Seabs looks up at him when he comes into the room, grinning.

‘ _The Boy Next Door_? Really?’

‘Shut up,’ Brandon says mildly. ‘If you really hated it you wouldn’t keep reading them and putting them back in the wrong place.’

‘Your book storage system makes no sense,’ Seabs protests, sliding a bookmark between the pages and setting it aside.

‘Stop pretending you’re not reading my trashy books,’ Brandon chides. ‘Then maybe I’ll explain the system to you. Which makes perfect sense, by the way.’

‘You’re up late,’ Seabs says.

‘Duncs is grumpy and won’t fuck me before he goes to sleep. He told me to come fuck you instead.’

Seabs looks like he’s just swallowed his own tongue.

‘I didn’t even know you were awake,’ Brandon says. ‘I was gonna go jerk off loudly in the shower to wake him up and go back to bed.’

‘…Oh,’ Seabs says, quickly. ‘Because, uh. I– it would– I would be okay… with that? Taking one for the team, so to speak.’ He turns an interesting shade of red.

‘…Oh,’ Brandon echoes.

‘I mean,’ Seabs says. ‘It’s not… anything we haven’t done before, right?’

He makes an excellent point, Brandon thinks. ‘We are slightly more sober,’ he points out. ‘Also, Duncs isn’t here.’

Seabs shrugs. ‘Your choice.’ He looks like he’s trying very hard to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

Brandon looks at him. Seabs picks up his book and starts reading again.

‘Okay,’ he says. Seabs looks up from his book. ‘You wanna fuck me?’ Brandon asks. Seabs grins.

‘Are we trying to wake Duncs up?’

Brandon smirks.

(They totally wakes Duncs up. He would be displeased but uh, this might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

These pictures don’t get sent to the guys.)


	26. Sid/Geno, beach AU

Sid hates the beach. It’s too hot, and too dry, and he burns really easily, and he always gets sand stuck in… places.

But. Taylor loves the beach. So.

Sid sits on a towel with a book and ignores the asshole surfers that drip water on him as they parade past.

-

On his third day at the beach, he makes a friend. Kind of.

He catches the eye of one of the surfers coming out of the water, shaking his head like he thinks he’s in some kind of shampoo commerical. The surfer grins, and makes a beeline for him. Sid curses, and buries his nose in his book again, but it’s too late.

‘I’m Alex,’ he says. He’s got an Eastern European accent. Sid looks up at him, squinting. ‘Now you say your name,’ Alex prompts.

‘…Sid,’ Sid says reluctantly. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Catch you watching,’ Alex says, sitting on the sand next to Sid. He shakes his head again and sprinkles Sid and his book with salt water. ‘You want learn how to surf?’

‘No,’ Sid says firmly. ‘Thank you.’ He lowers his gaze to his book again, but Alex reaches out with a damp hand and takes hold of Sid’s wrist.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I teach.’

‘You really don’t have to,’ Sid tries, but Alex is tugging on his wrist and somehow, Sid finds himself at the water’s edge.

Alex is making him lie belly-down on the board and get the motion to jump to his feet right when he suddenly looks behind Sid and says something cheerful in, Russian, Sid guesses.

He glances over his shoulder and sees a tall, lean guy with dark hair and board shorts that are criminally low slung. There’s water clinging to his bare shoulders and clumping in his eyelashes. He says something back to Alex in Russian, who laughs at him.

‘This Sid!’ he says in English. ‘Sid, this Zhenya. He even bigger asshole than me.’

‘Um,’ Sid says. He gets up off the board and holds his hand out to Zhenya. ‘Hi?’ he offers.

‘Call me Geno,’ Zheyna, Geno, rumbles. He smiles. ‘Sasha playing nice?’

Sid frowns. ‘He said his name was Alex.’

‘Sasha short for Alex,’ Alex says. ‘I always play nice.’

Geno snorts. They have another conversation in Russian, which ends in Alex throwing his head back and laughing, before gesturing to Sid. Sid stands awkwardly on the board and waits to be brought into the loop.

‘Zhenya gonna teach instead,’ Alex says.

‘…okay,’ Sid says. ‘But there’s really no need–’ he starts, but then Geno’s hands are on his hips, pushing until he turns more to the left.

‘Posture all wrong,’ Geno says. ‘You ski?’

‘Ice skate,’ Sid says. ‘Hockey.’

Geno lights up. ‘ _Hockey_.’

‘You play?’ Sid asks. Geno’s hands are still on him, tilting his shoulders a fraction. He nudges his feet wider apart.

‘Used to,’ Geno says. ‘When kid.’

‘How come you stopped?’

He taps his knee. Sid hadn’t noticed before, but underneath the tan it’s a tangle of scar tissue. ‘Car accident. Parents moved to Sestrorezk for work, learnt to surf, forgot hockey. Better for knee.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sid says. Hockey is… everything. He can’t imagine swapping it out for anything else in the world.

‘Is okay,’ Geno says, brightly. ‘Have surfboard, don’t need skates. Just as good.’

Sid hums, doubtfully.

‘We gonna get in water now,’ Geno says. ‘Might want take shirt off.’

Sid flushes, and hopes he can blame it on the heat.

-

Sid is exhausted by the time Geno pronounces the lesson over. The sun is setting, and when he drags himself out of the ocean, Taylor’s napping underneath the big sun umbrella, towel over her legs.

‘You come back tomorrow?’ Geno asks, hopefully.

Sid looks at him, then at the surfboard in Geno’s arms.

Sid really hates the beach. It’s hot and it’s sandy and there’s nowhere for him to skate.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow.’

Sid kind of wants to make Geno smile like that forever.


	27. Duncs/Sharp

‘Come on Duncs,’ Patrick says, stretching, hooking his hands around the headboard. ‘Bet you’d fuck Shawsy properly if he was the one lying here.’

Duncs glances up from where he’s pressing the flat of his palm into Patrick’s sternum. ‘Don’t project your weird rookie thing onto me,’ he says.

‘I’ve seen you watching him,’ Patrick says. ‘I’ve seen him watching you, too.’

‘Definitely projecting,’ Duncs says, and kisses Patrick to shut him up.

‘He’d probably be louder than me,’ Patrick says, consideringly, when they break apart.

‘I dunno,’ Duncs says darkly. ‘You’re talking a lot right now.’

Patrick rolls his hips up, petulant. Duncs shifts, settles his weight onto Patrick’s thighs. He rubs a thumb over one of his nipples absent mindedly, just to make him hiss.

‘I bet he’d be really squirmy, too,’ Patrick says. It’s kind of ruined a little bit by how breathless he is, Duncs pressing the pad of his thumb into the nipple hard.

‘What, like you are now?’ Duncs asks.

‘Worse, fuck,’ Patrick says, eyes sliding shut when Duncs leans down to scrape his teeth over the other nipple. ‘Bet you’d have to hold him down to fuck him, hyper little shit.’

Duncs mouths at his nipple for a while longer, dragging the flat of his tongue over it. Patrick gets increasingly more and more wound up, but he just  _keeps talking_.

‘Fine,’ Duncs says shortly, sitting back up. ‘I’ll play your game. But you’re not going to enjoy it.’

Patrick looks delighted.

‘Let’s talk about Saader,’ Duncs says. He feels Patrick’s dick jerk, just a little.

Duncs leans down again. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and he mouths along the line of Patrick’s jaw, making sure to scrape his stubble against his skin. Patrick has incredibly sensitive skin, and it’s already red and blotchy. Duncs has barely touched him.

‘Bet Manchild would love that,’ Duncs says calmly. ‘Covering you in beard burn from the chin down. All the way across your throat, down your chest…’ He trails his lips down as he talks, punctuating the words with tiny bites. He makes sure to pass Patrick’s nipples again, rubbing his cheek across them to catch them with the stubble. Patrick makes a choking sound.

‘He’s got bigger hands than me,’ Duncs says. His hands are cupped around the arcs of Patrick’s hips, pressing him into the mattress. He moves one of them to pop the button on Patrick’s pants, slide the zipper down slowly. ‘Longer fingers, mostly. Bet he can do all kinds of clever stuff with them.’

He slides his hand into Patrick’s underwear and pushes the heel of his palm into the base of Patrick’s dick. He whines, but keeps his hands where they are.

‘I wonder if you’d be this well behaved for him,’ Duncs says, thoughtfully. ‘He seems like he’d be bossy.’ He pulls Patrick’s dick out of his underwear and wraps his fingers around it. ‘Good thing you like bossy.’

‘Please,’ Patrick manages. He’s white-knuckled, hanging on to the headboard. Duncs twists his wrist to watch him throw his head back.

‘I bet he’d make you beg,’ Duncs says. ‘He seems like he’d like watching you beg.’ He twists his wrist again just to watch the look on Patrick’s face before moving his hand away. He shifts his weight again so he can drag Patrick’s pants and underwear off, hooking his fingertips into the waistband and pulling them down painfully slowly.

Patrick’s dick bobs against his stomach, dark red and leaking.

‘I wonder how long it would take him to find out how loud you get,’ Duncs says, easing a hand between Patrick’s legs, pressing the tip of a finger into him dry. His other hand is flat on Patrick’s stomach. He can feel his abs trembling. He brings his hand up to Patrick’s mouth and shoves two fingers in, rough. Patrick’s tongue flickers between them as he sucks hard. Duncs pulls them out, leaving Patrick’s lower lip jutting out as he drags them over it.

He draws them down across Patrick’s perineum and watches him shudder.

‘I bet he’d make you real loud, real fast,’ Duncs says with a smirk, and pushes until Patrick takes the whole finger, up to the last knuckle. Patrick’s whimpering and flushed already, eyes screwed shut.

He groans at the second finger, throwing his head from side to side but he doesn’t say anything, mouth dropping open, slack, when Duncs crooks his fingers.

‘Fuck,’ Patrick says, breathy, gasping. ‘ _Fuck me_ _._ ’

Duncs grins. ‘Gonna make you scream his name, I think,’ he says, casual.

Patrick’s sharp inhale is so,  _so_  worth it.


	28. Saad/Sharp, virgin Brandon

Patrick picks him up in a bar after a win in Pittsburgh.

He doesn’t normally, not outside of Chicago, but, well, it’s been a while, and the kid keeps looking at him with these blue, blue eyes.

Patrick finishes his drink and abandons his team.

The kid blows him in the bathroom, hot and messy and there are bite marks in Patrick’s forearm by the time he comes, straight down his throat. Thank God for long sleeves, he thinks, as the kid rinses his mouth out in the tiny, crappy sink.

‘What’s your name?’ Patrick asks suddenly. He doesn’t know why he just did that. He doesn’t ask names. He never asks them their names. Just if they want to get out of here, if he can fuck them, whether they need more prep. He doesn’t ask their names, and he certainly doesn’t kiss them.

His mouth is bitter from come, but he bites at Patrick’s lower lip hard enough that it swells up, and when he brings his thumb up to touch it, he can feel the imprints there, too.

‘Brandon,’ the kid says, looking down as he buttons Patrick’s pants up, buckles his belt for him. Patrick can feel his erection pressing against the hollow of Patrick’s hip.

Normally Patrick asks for ID, too, but he watched the kid get carded not twenty minutes ago, so he loops his fingers through Brandon’s belt loops, and asks if he wants to get out of here.

Brandon smirks, and grabs his wrist, leads the way.

He takes Patrick out the back, to where a beat up old Ford is parked. Patrick’s pretty sure his shoes cost more than the entire car.

They go to Patrick’s hotel room. The corridor is safe, the guys will be out for hours yet, and Patrick hasn’t had a road roomie in years.

Brandon kisses him again as soon as the door closes. Patrick crowds him up against it, forces a thigh in between Brandon’s legs. His hands are framing Brandon’s jaw, thumbs nudged right up into the dips of his jaw, where his pulse jumps.

Brandon has one hand fisted in Patrick’s shirt, crumpling the material, and the other hooked onto his hip, pulling him in closer.

‘Can I fuck you?’ Patrick asks between kisses.

Brandon makes a cut off sound and nods. He’s so close his lips catch on Patrick’s jaw. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘Please.’

They separate so Patrick can unbutton his shirt, tug it out from where Brandon had slowly tucked it back in only thirty minutes ago. Brandon peels his t-shirt off and dumps it on the floor by his shoes. The kid clearly works out, has a broad chest, a flat stomach. There’s a dark trail of hair leading down into his waistband. Patrick wants to get his mouth all over it.

He pulls him towards the bed, twists and pushes until he hits the sheets with his back, looking up at Patrick with a slightly parted mouth. He’s tenting his jeans in a big way, Patrick notes, as he climbs on the bed to sit carefully on Brandon’s hips.

He leaves a bruise on Brandon’s collarbone, teeth scraping over it as his mouth moves down over his chest, leaving sucking kisses and tiny bites. When he reaches Brandon’s waistband, he traces the line of it with his tongue before popping the button, tugging the zipper down.

Brandon’s not wearing underwear. Patrick looks up at him sharply.

Brandon grins down at him. ‘Never wear it when I’m picking up,’ he says. ‘Just wastes time. You gonna touch my dick now?’

Patrick bites at the crease of his groin in response, and peels the jeans off him until he finally has him naked and spread out on the bed underneath him. He presses a rough kiss on his inner thigh before bringing a hand up and round to press at the ring of muscle between his legs.

The muscles in Brandon’s thighs are thick, corded, tense already. Patrick pushes one finger in dry, up to the first knuckle, just to see, but Brandon pushes at his shoulder, face tight. ’Lube,’ he says.

Patrick kisses the head of his dick in apology and slides off the bed to dig it out of his bag.

Brandon’s lazily jerking himself off when Patrick turns back around. It’s, uh, distracting, and Patrick finds himself staring for a few moments before he collects himself and gets back on the bed.

‘Knees up, babe,’ he says, nudging at one of them. Brandon grins, and lets go of his dick, hooks his hands in the creases of his knees, and tugs until he’s essentially on display for Patrick.

Patrick never warms the lube up, slicks his fingers and presses one in cold, watches Brandon’s mouth go a little slack. He pushes back onto Patrick’s hand immediately, spreading his legs wider. Patrick puts his free hand on Brandon’s hip, reassuring. ‘You’ve done this before, right?’

Brandon nods. ‘To myself, anyway. Never had someone else fuck me.’

Patrick knows he’s a terrible, awful person, but his dick twitches at that. He’s kind of settled around half hard at the minute, but when he realises he’s going to be the first person to fuck Brandon, there’s a distinctly more urgent bulge in his pants.

‘Move already,’ Brandon says, rolling his hips and clenching around Patrick’s finger. ‘More, you’re not going to break me.’

‘You’re bossy,’ Patrick notes, adding a second finger and watching Brandon tip his head back, back coming off the bed.

‘I know what I want and what I like,’ Brandon says. He’s gratifyingly breathless. Patrick scissors his fingers, crooks them, twists his wrist, watches Brandon go tense and trembling and a little bit frantic as he digs his heels into the mattress to push Patrick’s fingers further inside.

Patrick pulls out and slicks up his ring finger, pushes three back in all at once, and is rewarded with a yelp, like it’s been punched out of him. ‘Fuck,’ Brandon says. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he hasn’t opened his eyes since Patrick added that second finger. ‘Fuck, that’s enough, I’m ready, I can take it.’

Patrick stretches him just a little more, to be sure. He knows he doesn’t have the biggest dick around, but as much as he’s enjoying Brandon falling apart on his fingers, he doesn’t actually want to hurt the kid.

Brandon moans when Patrick finally rolls the condom on and slides into him in one motion. He wraps his long legs around Patrick’s waist, crossing his ankles and pulling Patrick in closer. He almost loses his balance, has to plant a hand on Brandon’s sternum to stop him from falling. He can feel Brandon’s heart thumping underneath his fingers.

‘You okay?’ he murmurs. Brandon’s hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. Patrick sweeps it away. When Brandon opens his eyes to look at him, his pupils are so blown there’s only a tiny ring of the blue left.

‘Fuck,’ Patrick says.

‘That seems to be the general idea,’ Brandon says, weakly. ‘Get on with it.’

Patrick grins, and rolls his hips. Brandon’s eyes go unfocused. It’s incredibly satisfying.

He alternates between long slow thrusts and shorter, faster ones, until they’re both breathing hard, and Brandon is arching his back underneath him. Patrick shoves a hand between them and jerks him off roughly, until he’s coming with a cry, striping his own belly. Patrick comes shortly after, fucking Brandon through his orgasm until he’s making tiny whimpery sounds.

Patrick pulls out, ties the condom off and tosses it in the general direction of the trashcan, and rolls onto his side next to Brandon, chest heaving. He drags his fingers through the mess on his stomach and licks his hand clean idly. Brandon opens one eye to look at him and groans.

‘Oh my god,’ he says.

Patrick preens a little bit. ‘You okay?’ he asks.

Brandon groans again. Patrick rolls off the bed to grab a washcloth, wipes down his stomach and thighs carefully, apologising when he’s too rough over where Brandon’s sensitive, and he whimpers.

‘We should do that again forever,’ Brandon says, eventually.

Patrick… had not planned for that. ‘Um,’ he says.

Brandon cracks one eye, and grins. ‘I’m joking, don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I know what a one night stand is.’

‘…Oh,’ Patrick says. That’s… oddly disappointing, actually, and it must show on his face, because Brandon opens both eyes and rolls onto his side.

‘I mean, I could give you my number, and next time you’re in Pittsburgh you could give me a call?’

Patrick grins. ‘I could probably do that.’

‘Good,’ Brandon says, and leans over to kiss him lightly. ‘Next time, I want to try fucking you.’


	29. Saad/everyone, Olympics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, Brandon is involved with: Andrew Shaw, TJ Oshie, Hilary Knight, Jonathan Toews, Alex Galechenyuk and Olli Maatta

‘Dude, there are like, big bowls of condoms  _all over the place_ ,’ Brandon says, a little wide-eyed. ‘They have to refill them every couple of days. Everyone in Pyeongchang is having  _so much_  sex.’

Andy laughs, delighted. ‘Get it, babe.’

Brandon keeps talking. ‘It’s kind of ridicu– wait. What?’

‘I wouldn’t want you to feel left out,’ Andy says, grinning. ‘Plus, when you come home, you can fuck me wearing your silver medal and tell me all about it.’

‘Silver?’ Brandon arches an eyebrow.

‘Well, I mean, Canada’s bringing home the gold. I guess America can have silver, unless they fuck it up like last time.’

‘You’re the worst person I know,’ Brandon declares.

Andy looks at the camera, soft. ‘Love you too, babe. Now go get laid.’

-

i.

Brandon has a lot of fun with Galchenyuk.

He’s big, acts tough, but Brandon’s used to dealing with Andy, who gets way pushier, and is way more petulant about not getting his way.

Galchenyuk tells him to call him Alex just before Brandon gets a hand on his dick, and then he doesn’t say much of anything.

Brandon blows him against the door of the room he’s sharing with Kaner. He gets his hands in Brandon’s hair and holds him tight while Brandon swallows him all the way down. A tear trickles down the side of his face, salty, but it’s worth it when Alex makes a tiny whimper and comes down his throat, sagging against the door.

‘Wow,’ he says, afterwards. Brandon grins up from his knees.

‘My turn,’ he says, and the way Alex’s jaw drops open at how wrecked he sounds is almost as satisfying.

-

ii.

It’s actually Hilary who approaches him, in the end. He’s working out, and she comes up behind him, offers to spot him. She looks like she could snap him in half if she wanted to.

Brandon really,  _really_  wants her to.

They trade off on sets for a while, and she matches pretty much everything he’s lifting.

The locker rooms are technically separated by gender, but she follows him into the shower anyway, pushes him up against a wall and kisses him senseless. He fucks her slowly, watching the water trickle across her shoulders, down between her breasts. It’s kind of amazing. He gets her off twice in the showers, hand deep between her legs, and they pull clothes on quickly, towelling off and heading straight back to her room.

The strap-on is nothing really new to him, he’s had other girlfriends into it, and god knows he likes getting fucked. It’s been a long time since he’s had to do all the work, though. She lays back with a smirk, damp hair in a dark halo around her face, and watches as he fucks himself down on the silicon. There’s an attachment on the dildo that means every time he bottoms out, it grinds into her, and pulls some frankly breathtaking sounds out of her, and it’s not long before he comes in her hand, and she’s shaking apart underneath him.

‘Can I have your number?’ he asks, afterward, lying with her head on his chest. ‘I mean, if you’re ever in Chicago. My boyfriend would love you.’

She laughs. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t think your boyfriend could handle me.’

‘I did okay,’ Brandon points out, and she laughs again, twists and pulls him into a kiss that has him making short, sharp sounds into her mouth.

-

iii.

Brandon calls Andy after the USA/Canada game, mostly to gloat, but also to ask his permission.

‘Babe, you have blanket permission to fuck whoever you want, you know that.’

Brandon drops his gaze. ‘It’s a teammate. A Hawk, I mean.’

Andy smiles like his face is going to split in half. ‘ _Who_?’ he asks. ‘Kaner?’

Brandon chokes. ‘No, God no. It’s, uh…’

‘Wait,’ Andy says. ‘Don’t tell me. You can tell me when you get home.’

‘I miss you,’ Brandon says, honestly.

Andy kisses his fingertips and presses it to the screen, like a dumbass. Brandon reaches out and touches the same space anyway. ‘I’ll call you later,’ Andy says. ‘Happy fucking!’

He runs into Jonny on the pathway between the Canada house and the USA house. He’s flushed from drinking, and is loose in a way that Brandon never really sees. He looks kind of sad, though.

Brandon spreads him out across his bed and rolls his hips into Jonny’s. He’s quiet, but clings, has this quiet desperation. Brandon kisses him roughly and jerks him off quickly, without ceremony, pinning both his wrists above his head with one huge hand.

Afterwards, they shower together in silence. Jonny thanks him as they’re dressing. Brandon looks down and sees that he’s wearing a Canada shirt. He strips it off, but his shirt is ruined. Jonny gives him a plain white one, a little tight across the shoulders, kisses him at the door.

‘Thank Shawsy for me, too,’ he says just as Brandon’s about to leave. ‘I… needed that.’

Brandon grins. ‘I’ll pass the message on.’

-

iv.

He runs into Olli by accident, when he’s looking for Teuvo.

He grins, and touches Brandon on the shoulder, and Brandon’s not stupid, he can tell when someone’s flirting with him.

The sex is great. He’s kind of expecting to be running the show, but Olli laughs at him and says something in Finnish that Brandon only catches half of, and twists his hips to flip them.

Brandon laughs, and tugs him down for a kiss.

Olli ends up fucking him, one hand flat on his belly, and the other hooked behind his thigh as he drives into Brandon, knocking short sounds out of him every time. Olli rolls his hips and Brandon comes untouched.

Olli pulls out and adds to the mess on Brandon’s stomach, jerking off with a smirk. Brandon’s hand is kind of unsteady, but he curls it around Olli’s smaller one and rubs his thumb against the head. He’s not cut, which is something new to Brandon, and it takes Olli a little longer than it usually would before he’s swearing and coming all over Brandon’s belly.

He pulls Olli into another kiss afterwards, hooking a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him flush against his stomach.

‘Gross,’ Olli says, mild, wiping at his belly with Brandon’s t-shirt.

‘You made the mess,’ Brandon says in clumsy Finnish, and grins up when Olli looks at him in surprise.

‘True,’ Olli says back, in English, and dips down and lick a flat stripe across Brandon’s stomach. Brandon feels his abs tense up automatically, and Olli draws a circle around his belly button with the tip of his tongue.

By the time he’s clean, Brandon’s half hard again, and Olli ends up sucking him off. Brandon offers to return the favour, but Olli, head pillowed on Brandon’s shoulder, shakes his head with a smile. ‘You Americans have such a high sex drive. Some of us are happy with just one orgasm.’

Brandon doesn’t mean to fall asleep with his arm slung around Olli, but when he wakes up in the morning, he realises how much he’d missed having a warm body next to him while he slept. They shower in companionable silence and get breakfast together in the Finland house, and Teuvo chirps Brandon from across the room.

‘I liked you better when you were shy and scared of me,’ Brandon chirps back, and his accent is atrocious and he’s pretty sure he gets the words in the wrong order, but Olli laughs uproariously and lets Brandon steals his apple, so. Brandon’s calling it a win.

-

v.

He honestly doesn’t mean to fuck TJ.

Mostly.

If Brandon’s being completely honest, he’s had a bit of a thing for TJ since he watched the Sochi shootout. He likes guys with good hands, and TJ has  _such_ good hands.

He wins them the game against Finland with a sweet penalty shot goal, and Brandon had grabbed his helmet afterwards, yelled in his face, and seen TJ flushed and excited.

Brandon makes sure to grab TJ’s ass when he hugs him, surrounded by team and hidden by the cameras. TJ looks at him, questioning, and Brandon grins and winks.

‘Oh,’ TJ mouths. ‘ _Oh_.’ He smiles back, and nods.

Well, Brandon never got anywhere by being subtle. He’s dating  _Andrew Shaw_ , for crying out loud. Subtle does nothing for him.

TJ kisses him in the locker room, and then whoops. ‘Gold medal game, baby!’

The guys catcall, and Brandon’s face heats, but he smirks up at TJ anyway.

‘My room or yours?’ TJ asks, leaning down to whisper in Brandon’s ear. Brandon catches Kaner’s eye from across the room, raises his eyebrows. Kaner looks confused for a second, and then rolls his eyes, and nods.

‘Mine,’ Brandon says. ‘Think my roommate has a better offer.’

‘Kaner?’ TJ pouts. ‘Shame.’

Brandon looks at him. ‘Really?’

TJ shrugs. ‘We almost did in Sochi, before he and Jonny got their shit together. Are they on or off, currently? I can never really tell.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Brandon says. ‘I’ll meet you back at the house.’

TJ nods, and ruffles Brandon’s hair. ‘Good game, kid,’ he says, and wanders back to his own stall.

Sex with TJ is… interesting. He makes a lot of bad jokes, and won’t take his snapback off, even when Brandon threatens not to get him off. He actually  _giggles_ , which Brandon was honestly not expecting, and tugs Brandon down into a kiss.

Neither of them really get off for a while, they get caught up in kissing and rolling over and over so neither of them is on top, until Brandon’s erection brushes up against TJ and they both gasp into the kiss.

‘Hey there,’ TJ says, and works his hand between their bodies. ‘Nice to see you, finally.’

Brandon’s laughing when TJ makes him come in his pants.

‘You know, you remind me a lot of Tazer,’ TJ says afterwards, when they’re both sore and well fucked. Brandon has had three texts from Kaner telling him he’ll be gone until morning.

Brandon glances over from where he’s lying on his belly, chin pillowed on his crossed arms. TJ is on his side, running a hand up and down Brandon’s spine. It kind of tickles, but not enough for Brandon to move away from it. It’s nice. Kind of reminds him of Andy.

‘Really?’ Brandon says. ‘That… is never something that’s been said to me after sex.’

TJ laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not comparing you guys there. You just both need a little push to let loose. Then you’re a lot of fun.’

‘Thanks. I think?’

TJ leans over and kisses him quickly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s a compliment. This was awesome. We should do it again when we win gold.’

‘Sure thing,’ Brandon says. TJ winks, and jumps out of bed, starts pulling clothes on.

‘See you round, Saader,’ he says, and then he’s gone.

Brandon rolls onto his back, and reaches for his phone to text Andy.

-

+1

Andy is surprisingly receptive to Brandon fucking him in his gold medal, when Canada came home with bronze.

‘I can’t believe you fucked  _Tazer_ ,’ he says, afterwards, curling himself around Brandon like he has no intention of letting go ever.

‘You gave me permission,’ Brandon points out.

‘I know,’ Andy says. ‘I’m just saying. Was it super intense? Did he have his dead shark eyes on?’

‘No,’ Brandon says, deadpan. ‘I made him keep his eyes shut the entire time.’

Andy squints at him.

‘No, he did not have his dead shark eyes on,’ Brandon says. ‘It was just after we beat your guys, so. He was kind of sad. And drunk.’

‘Shame,’ Andy says. ‘It’s kinda hot.’

‘You are the worst person I know,’ Brandon says.

Andy totally ruins it by grinning up at him and kissing the hinge of his jaw. ‘You love me. You missed me  _so much_.’

Brandon hums, and dips his chin to kiss Andy on the lips. ‘I guess. You are awfully convenient.’


	30. Geno, daemon AU

When Zhenya is small, so is Iskra.

She grows with him, flits from lion cub and eagle chick to wolfhound, to Clydesdale, juvenile, clumsy.

The day he is drafted by the Pittsburgh Penguins, she settles. He steps off the stage and into the embrace of her warm, dark fur. She pushes her blunt nose into his shoulder and swipes at him with a paw, claws carefully tucked away. She’s so big. Zhenya digs his hands into her fur and kisses the top of her head.

‘I knew you could do it,’ she says.

-

Zhenya has never met anyone else with a bear daemon.

Everyone in Magnitogorsk has dogs, bats, workhorses. Sensible daemons, his father says. Daemons that can help with the mining.

He meets Sasha on the ice when he is seventeen and stupid, and he meets Sasha’s daemon, Anastasiya in the locker room. He calls her Ana with a fond voice and a tiny smile. Ana is easily six feet tall. She bends one front leg to lean down and brush noses with Iskra, in her labrador form. She barks and shimmers, growing into a deer. She’s still dwarfed by Ana.

Zhenya knows very few daemons continue to shift after the age of sixteen. His mama says he’s special. His father says any day now. Denis calls him a baby. His Irish setter daemon dances around his feet, silent.

Zhenya knows hockey players tend to settle late. But he’s almost eighteen, and still Iskra shifts from day to day, sometimes hour to hour.

Sasha is the first person other than Zhenya to touch Iskra with his bare hand. Zhenya knows things are different in hockey. Touching means different things. He’s never shied away from it, but. No one’s ever touched Iskra before.

Sasha apologises, draws his hand back.

‘It’s okay,’ Zhenya says, and it is. Sasha smiles at him. He hasn’t lost his tooth yet, his teeth are even and straight and white.

They win a gold medal together and it’s the best thing Zheyna’s ever done.

-

Sasha moves to Washington.

Zhenya is stuck in Magnitogorsk.

Sidney Crosby goes first overall.

-

Zhenya watches hours of him playing. He learns English listening to play by play commentary. He cannot understand basic conversation, but he understands  _goal_ , he understands  _winning_. He wants to play with Sidney Crosby. He wants to play for the Penguins. By his side, Iskra asks questions about America, about Pittsburgh.

He tells her about the lights. About the buildings. He shows her pictures of the bridges, the sports stadiums.

‘Pittsburgh is twice, three times the size of Magnitogorsk,’ he tells her, and she shakes her head, pleased. There is no room in a tiny mining town for a hockey player and his grizzly daemon.

She asks about Sidney, about the snow leopard by his side in all the photos he shows her. He can’t find her name, but he watches the way Sidney is always touching her, every photo.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Iskra says, and Zhenya can’t not agree.

-

Pittsburgh is loud.

Busy.

He sits in the passenger seat of a van and twists around to check on Iskra, curled up behind him. Her fur is ruffled, but she licks at his hand with her rough tongue when he reaches out to her.

‘We made it,’ he says, and can’t stop the smile spreading over his face.

-

Mario Lemieux is… imposing. Tall, broad shouldered, his bulldog daemon behind him, bow legged.

Sidney is smaller than Zhenya had thought. Shyer, too. He hides behind his daemon as she winds through his legs, but when he shakes Zhenya’s hand he smiles, and says something in English.

Sergei translates for him while his tabby cat climbs all over Iskra. She paws at her playfully, and Iskra snorts a blast of hot air at her.

‘He is very excited to play with you. He’s watched a lot of video of you.’

‘Oh,’ Zhenya says. ‘Tell him I’m excited too.’

Sidney smiles even wider at that. His whole face lights up.

Geno thinks there might be something special happening, at this moment. 

 


	31. Foligno/Johansen, kneeling

Nick doesn’t get a say in it, really.

They call him into the office and he shifts his feet as Coach shuffles some papers around.

‘We have a rookie we’d like you to mentor,’ he says eventually.

‘Uh,’ Nick says. ‘But.’ He stops. ‘I’m new here,’ he says eventually.

Coach smiles faintly. ‘We heard excellent things from Ottawa about your dealing with the rookies up there. We think you and Ryan will be a perfect fit.’

‘Ryan,’ Nick says.

‘Johansen,’ Coach says. ‘He’s going to start the season with us.’

Their first round pick from the draft, then. The loud, cocky kid that is probably going to be the future of this team. The one that skates circles around Nick without even trying. The one that lit it up this preseason all by himself.

No pressure, then.

-

As it turns out, Ryan has no intention of kneeling for Nick.

Which makes things a little bit easier, because Nick has no idea what to do with an eighteen year old on his knees in a hotel room. (Nothing appropriate anyway. Nick is going to hell.)

Ryan is tearing it up on the ice. The team is struggling, but Ryan, he’s playing lights out hockey, the kind of hockey that makes the guys on his line play harder just so they don’t look bad. He’s loud on and off the ice. He lifts people up.

Nick watches from a distance. He’s very aware that the coaches are watching him too.

-

They get slaughtered by Pittsburgh at the start of December.

Ryan is held off the scoresheet, and he slams around in the locker room afterwards, not talking to anyone.

Nick goes over, half in his suit, and puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. He shrugs it off and scowls.

‘I don’t need you,’ he hisses.

Nick catches Matty’s eye from a few stalls down. He looks concerned. Nick shakes his head.

‘Okay, buddy,’ he says. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ He goes back to his own stall and loops his tie around his neck silently. Jan wanders up behind him.

‘He’ll come to you if he needs it,’ he rumbles in lightly accented English. Nick nods, and starts knotting his tie. ‘Trust him,’ Jan says. Nick just nods again.

Ryan is sitting in his stall staring at his gloves, tumbled on the floor together.

-

Ryan goes three more games without a point before Nick gets a knock on his hotel room door.

‘Fix me,’ Ryan says, pushing his way in. Nick picks up a t-shirt from the floor and slides it over his head.

‘I don’t think it works like that,’ he says slowly.

‘I’m not scoring,’ Ryan says. He looks a little lost, and his eyes are scanning the wallpaper dully. ‘Nothing’s working. So this has to.’

He takes a deep breath, and before Nick can say anything, he drops to his knees with a soft thud.

Nick steps over a wayward sneaker and sits on the edge of the bed carefully. Ryan shuffles closer. Nick kind of wishes he was wearing real pants, because he can feel Ryan’s slow breaths hot on his knee.

Ryan’s head is bowed, and his eyes are closed, and his shoulders are one long line of tension. Nick reaches out and scratches through Ryan’s curly hair tentatively. He sighs, and the tiniest bit of tension evaporates. He does it again, brushing the rough pad of his thumb over Ryan’s brow, where it’s wrinkled and creased, and slowly, his face smooths out.

Ryan falls asleep there, with Nick running his hands through his hair slowly, gently, rhythmically. When he’s snoring, just a little, Nick leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, just one. Ryan twitches in his sleep and Nick settles his hand at the base of Ryan’s skull, picking up his Kindle with his free hand, content to sit and wait.


	32. PK/Pricey, soulbonds

Goalies don’t bond. They just. They don’t, okay?

Carey learnt at a very early age that he was never going to bond, and he was mostly pretty okay with that. He got to skip all the stupid bonding classes in favour of more ice time, anyway, which was awesome.

Bonding messed with the hockey, anyway, made you better (or worse, if it was a bad bond. Carey’s seen bad bonds. They’re scary.)

Carey liked knowing his hockey was as good as it’s going to get, and no one can take it away from him, or give him an excuse. They can’t call him out and say it’s only good because he’s bonded.

It’s why goalies don’t get drafted first overall, unless they’re really something special. Carey goes fifth overall and is content.

-

He meets PK Subban on the ice at training camp fresh off PK’s draft. He’s got a wicked smile and a dirtier slapshot, and when Carey shakes his hand after practice, he gives him a static shock that knocks them both back a step.

‘Whoa,’ PK says. He’s still smiling, loose and easy.

‘What was that?’ Carey asks. He’s never felt anything like it.

The smile fades a little from PK’s face. ‘Uh. I think we just bonded, man.’

‘We can’t have done,’ Carey says. He’s trying to sound calm. PK looks worried. ‘Goalies don’t bond. We don’t.’

‘Apparently, you do,’ PK says. Carey can feel PK in his head, casual and easy and loose. It’s calming.

-

Being bonded to PK isn’t so bad. He’s kind of loud all the time, but being on the ice with him is amazing. It can’t be like this for all bonded players, he thinks. This has to be something special.

He texts Tazer about it, because Tazer’s the only other bonded guy he knows well enough.

_whats it like being bonded to kane_

_?_

_just answer the question man_

_Like nothing else._

Carey sighs, and calls him. ‘You’re an asshole.’

'What do you want me to say, man?’

'I dunno. Just.’ He pauses. 'What’s it like?’ he finishes, lamely.

He can hear Tazer rolling his eyes.

'It’s like having someone who’s an extension of you,’ he says, eventually. 'It’s like… he’s always there, so I’m never really alone. He stops me beating myself up about all the losses so much. The wins feel amazing.’ Tazer clears his throat. 'Why do you wanna know, anyway?’

Carey is lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. They haven’t even told the team yet.

'I bonded,’ he says.

'No shit,’ Tazer says. 'I thought–’

'Yeah, I thought so too. Guess I’m just special.’

Tazer laughs. 'Something like that, Pricer.’

-

They have to tell the team eventually. Carey shuffles his feet and stares at the capret. PK looks straight ahead, unashamed.

It’s probably about then that Carey started falling for PK, if he really thinks about it.

 


	33. Chucky/Gally, daemon AU

Alex’s daemon settles early. He’s maybe twelve, and he wakes up, and she’s asleep on his pillow, sleek and brown and he feels weird.

He pokes her awake, and she blinks at him. ‘What?’

‘I feel weird, do you feel weird?’

She stretches easily, sticking her paws out in front of her and arching her back. ‘I dunno. What kind of weird?’

He shrugs. She rolls onto her back and looks pointedly at him until he rubs her belly.

‘You’ve never been an otter before,’ he says. ‘Why’d you choose it?’

‘I– I didn’t?’ she says. He stops rubbing, and she rolls back to her feet, lifts her front legs up until she’s balanced on her hind feet. ‘I can’t change.’

Alex ends up waking his mama up. Ella is winding around his feet, pretending she’s not just as freaked out as he is.

His mama smiles at him, so big, and kisses the top of his head. Julius, his mama’s cobra, noses at Ella, flicks his tongue at her. ‘She’s settled,’ he says.

‘But Genly hasn’t even settled yet,’ Alex says, confused. Anna’s daemon keeps saying it’ll happen any day now, that he can tell it’s coming.

His mama shrugs. ‘Some daemons settle earlier. Ella obviously knew what she was supposed to be, didn’t see any point in putting it off.’

Alex sits on his mama’s bed, pulls Ella into his arms. She squirms for a while, but then stops, content to let him scratch behind her ears.

‘All the kids at school are going to be so jealous of you,’ Alex says. ‘You’re the  _best_  daemon.’

Ella preens. His mother laughs gently. Alex can’t stop smiling.

-

He meets Senke before he meets Nail. Senke is tiny and brown and fuzzy.

‘What are you?’ Ella asks him, batting carefully with a paw. Senke squawks.

‘Don’t be rude,’ Alex reprimands her.

A lanky kid with thick eyebrows swoops in, scoops him up and cradles him in his hands carefully. ‘Can I help you?’

Alex grins. ‘You’re Russian?’

The kid nods slowly. Alex grins wider, and slips back into his first language. ‘I’m Alex,’ he says. ‘This is Ella. She’s sorry for scaring your daemon.’

‘Nail,’ the guy says. ‘This is Senke.’

‘I wasn’t scared,’ Senke says.

Ella opens her mouth to say something, but Alex nudges her with his foot. ‘Nice to meet the two of you. Where are you from?’

They make small talk about Russia while they gear up, and Ella and Senke disappear to meet the other daemons, Senke perched on Ella’s head easily. Nail tweets a picture of it, follows it with a half dozen smilies. Alex retweets it and hits the follow button. He feels like he and Nail are going to get on.

-

Nail goes first overall. Senke hides in his suit pocket the entire draft.

Alex goes third, and goes up to the stage with Ella draped around his shoulders like a furry scarf.

It might be the best day of his life.

-

Brendan Gallagher is the most annoying person Alex has ever met. He talks  _all the time_  and he never stops smiling, and his daemon sheds on everything. He’s also Alex’s new road roomie.

‘It’s the worst,’ Alex says on Skype to Nail. ‘He  _took my nickname_.’

‘Well, he was there first, in fairness,’ Nail says.

On the other bed, Brendan’s playing with Mina, rolling around with her and probably getting even more dog hair all over everything.

‘You’re the worst friend ever, you’re supposed to back me up on this,’ Alex says, well aware he’s being whiny. ‘I’m hanging up on you and calling Troubs, he’ll have my back.’

Nail laughs, so Alex does hang up on him. He texts him afterwards,  _jackass_ , but he doesn’t call Troubs. He rolls onto his side and watches Brendan wrestling with Mina.

It’s kind of cute, Alex guesses. Brendan’s laughing, and pressing tiny kisses to the top of Mina’s head, every time he gets a chance. He puts a hand on Ella’s ribs and scratches her belly absent mindedly and she makes a soft, pleased sound, stretching out beside him, half asleep.

Yeah, it could be worse, Alex thinks, and rolls over for a nap, falls asleep to the sound of scuffling behind him.

 


	34. Paulie/Nealer, team medic Paulie

Paul likes his job. Honestly. It’s interesting, and pays well, and he gets paid to watch hockey, at the end of the day. It’s great.

Most of the team is great, too, even if he has to hunt them down one by one for their physicals, and, on one memorable occasion, manhandle Sidney Crosby off the bench for stitches.

(‘It’s only a little cut, I’m  _fine_.’

‘Your lip is literally split in half.’

‘It’s still attached to my face.’

‘Sidney.’)

For the most part though, it’s fine. Really.

-

Paul wakes up to a ringing phone. It’s 8am. It’s his day off. It’s the Pens day off. He was going to sleep  _all day_.

‘’lo?’ he mumbles into the phone.

‘Um,’ the voice on the other end says. Paul takes the phone away from his ear to look at the caller ID. James Neal, newly traded from Dallas. Seems nice, for a hockey player. He puts the phone back to his ear in time to hear, ‘–think I’ve broken my wrist.’

Paul pinches the bridge of his nose and takes back anything nice he’s ever said about a hockey player. ‘ _How_?’

Neal mumbles something that Paul has to ask him to repeat. ‘I fell out of bed.’

‘You fell out of bed,’ Paul repeats.

‘…Maybe.’

Paul sighs. ‘Text me your address, I’ll come over and take a look. Don’t do anything dumb.’

-

Paul’s awake the next time the phone rings. He does have raw chicken all over his hands though, and he nearly breaks his neck trying to get to his phone before it cuts off.

Neal again. Paul takes a deep breath before swiping the accept call button.

‘Hey, Dr Martin!’ Neal says, breezy, casual.

‘What did you do?’ Paul says.

There’s a pause on the other end, before, ‘Nothing! Why would you think I’d done something? Maybe I’m just calling for a chat.’

Paul waits.

‘Also, hypothetically, how deep does a cut have to be before it needs stitches?’

Paul looks longingly at his half prepared dinner. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘I said hypothetically!’ Neal says, before Paul cuts him off, hanging up and stepping into his sneakers. He turns off the burner, and puts the chicken back in the fridge, and rescues his first aid kit from the downstairs bathroom.

-

‘I honestly don’t know why you thought anything about that entire shift was a good idea,’ Paul says. ‘Sit  _still_.’

The team dentist rolls his eyes, pulling another tooth fragment out of Neal’s lip.

‘All yours, Paul,’ he says, pulling a final one out. ‘Feel free to stitch his lips together entirely, the team will thank you.’

Neal glares at his back on the way out of the room. Paul pulls a pair of gloves on, and flips the lid of the suture kit.

‘I hope it was worth it,’ Paul says, wiping the area down with alcohol. Neal hisses.

‘Totally worth it,’ he says, around Paul’s hand holding his lower lip taught. ‘Guy was asking for it all night.’

‘Mm,’ Paul says. ‘It’s a shame his fist got in the way of your face though. I feel like there were other ways to give it to him.’

Neal scowls. ‘I broke his nose,’ he says, and then yelps, when Paul touches the needle to the split skin.

‘Don’t be a baby,’ Paul says. ‘This isn’t even the first time you’ve had stitches  _this week_ , Neal.’

‘Nealer,’ Neal says, suddenly. ‘Or James.’

‘…James.’ Paul says. ‘This changes nothing. I still have to stitch your lip up. Stop talking for thirty second. Please.’

James pouts, and then winces. Paul rolls his eyes, and gets to it.

-

The next day, James spends the whole morning skate sneezing. Paul grabs him on the way off the ice, before he tries to infect anyone else.

His sinuses are fine, though, and he’s not coughing, there’s no fever or shivering.

‘Are you allergic to anything?’ he asks, making a note. ‘Cats, dogs, pollen?’

‘Cardamom,’ James says, with a sniffle. ‘But I haven’t eaten anything with that in since I found out I was allergic.’

He’s clutching a Starbucks cup in one hand. Paul digs through his kit for antihistamines, and gives him a small foil packet. ‘Don’t take more than one,’ he warns.

James washes it down with the last of his coffee, and then sneezes four times in a row, eyes streaming with tears.

Paul eyes the cup.

‘What’s in there?’ he asks.

‘Chai tea,’ James says. ‘…What?’

-

James turns up to practice a couple of weeks later with a shiny red mark on the palm of his hand.

‘You’re an idiot,’ Paul says, from where he’s supervising Dupuis’ knee rehab stretches. ‘What did you do now?’

James blushes. ‘I bought new pans. They have metal handles. I must have left it over the heat too long.’

‘You’re a liability,’ Paul says. ‘How are you not dead?’

‘Luck?’ James offers, winces as he unbuttons his shirt with his bad hand. Paul rolls his eyes, leaves Dupuis to it (Dupuis can be trusted. Paul wishes he could say the same for literally any other player on this team.)

He’s gentler than he means to be when he has James sitting on the bed in the medical room and he takes him by the wrist, coaxes his palm flat, and rubs some cream in. James’ face twists with discomfort at first, but he relaxes as the cream gets absorbed in.

‘I don’t understand how a grown man can’t cook without seriously injuring himself.’ Paul says, wrapping the burn in a square of gauze. ‘Change this every twelve hours or so.’

James nods. ‘I dunno. My mom taught me, I got a bunch of recipes, they just… go wrong.’

‘Maybe you should just stop trying,’ Paul says.

James looks at him. ‘And starve to death?’

‘I can cook,’ Paul says by accident. ‘I mean. I’ll cook for you. If you promise not to try and help.’

James is smiling at him, amused. ‘You gonna make me dinner, Dr Martin?’

‘Paul,’ he says. ‘And yes.’ James’ grin gets wider. ‘Only because I don’t want you to hurt yourself seriously.’ He finishes wrapping James’ hand. ‘No cooking. Don’t go anywhere near a stove. Doctor’s orders.’

‘Sure thing, Paulie. What time is dinner?’

‘Eight. Can you be trusted to bring wine?’

‘Yes, the twenty three year old can be trusted to buy a bottle of wine.’

(Paul is making sushi. James brings red wine. Paul officially gives up.)

 


	35. Domi/Duclair, college AU

Anthony likes the library, especially after hours. There’s a side entrance he can get into using his student-employee ID card, and so he likes to do his thesis work at three am, when no one else is around, and he can listen to music without his headphones and write about the emergence of the modern femme fatale in post 1950s literature until the sun starts to come up.

He gets to his usual table one night just after closing, armed with a stack of books and a tupperware of leftovers (his roommate is a god among men), and–

There’s someone sitting at his table. Anthony gets a little closer, and rolls his eyes.

Max Domi is at Western on a Lacrosse scholarship, is currently undeclared, and as far as Anthony can tell, this is the first time he’s set foot in the library all year.

‘How’d you get in?’ he asks. Domi glances around, grins.

'You left the door open. I wanted to know what you were doing by yourself in the library all night. I’m curious like that.’ He’s crewing gum, obnoxiously loud. Anthony is not by nature a violent person, but he kind of hopes that Domi chokes on it a little bit.

'I’m working,’ Anthony says. 'Shockingly.’

'Oh,’ Domi says. 'Cool.’ He pauses. Spits his gum out into the nearest trashcan. 'Want me to blow you in the stacks?’

Anthony stares at him. 'Do you even know my name?’ he asks, eventually.

'I know you’re hot,’ Domi says. 'And I know that I wanna blow you.’

Anthony sets his books down on the table. 'Okay,’ he says. 'Why not?’

Domi grins. It’s almost as dumb as his Maple Leafs snapback. He jumps out of his chair, and heads for the stacks. 

-

It’s cold in the stacks, always is. The hairs on Anthony’s arms stand up as he follows Domi deeper, into the parts of the stacks too old for CCTV. When they’ve reached a spot that’s apparently suitable, Domi stops, grabs Anthony, and pushes him into the brick wall between two stacks, and drops to his knees.

Anthony worries vaguely about the state of his knees after being on this stone floor for so long, but he can’t worry much, because Domi’s already getting down to business, unbuckling his belt and popping the button on his jeans. He smirks, and leans in to tug the zipper down with his teeth, before slipping a hand on Anthony’s underwear and coaxing his dick out. He’s mostly soft when Domi curls a hand around him, starts mouthing at the head, but his dick catches on fast, starts stiffening up rapidly. Domi grins up at him.

'Didn’t take you long to join the party, huh?’

'Do you have to talk?’ Anthony asks. Domi smirks, and opens his mouth, taking almost all of Anthony’s dick in one slick glide, and Anthony’s head hits the wall.

Domi hums, smug, and draws back again to suck on the head gently, nipping right at the slit with the barest hint of teeth. Anthony hisses, scrabbles to get a grip on Domi’s hair, and realises he hasn’t taken the stupid snapback off, just swiveled it backwards, so the bill covers the nape of his neck. He settles for cradling Domi’s skull, pinky fingers just fitting underneath the beak of the cap. 

Domi’s not awful, he realises. Kind of sloppy, a little toothier than he normally likes, but he’s enthusiastic, and he sounds like it’s doing all kinds of stuff for him, which Anthony. Was not expecting? 

He’s close faster than he thought, too, comes down Domi’s throat without warning, and gasps out an apology. There’s a trail of come sliding from the corner of Domi’s lips, but he just scrubs at it with the back of his hand, nonplussed.

’…thanks,’ Anthony says, eventually, when he’s caught his breath. Domi’s readjusted his cap, and risen from his knees more gracefully than should be possible.

He grins again. It’s a really annoying smile, Anthony decides. ’S'all good, man.’

'Can I get you back?’

Domi waves him away. 'Nah man, next time.’

'Oh,’ Anthony says. He’s oddly disappointed, he thinks. Domi winks, and turns to leave.

'See you around, man.’

Just as he’s about to vanish out the door, he pauses and turns. 'Oh, and your name is Anthony. See, I pay attention.’ He blows a kiss, and disappears, leaving Anthony to buckle his belt up again in silence.


	36. Bollig/Saad/Shaw, phone sex

Brandon’s on his knees in front of Andy’s couch when it occurs to him.

‘Hey,’ he says, biting gently at the meat of Andy’s thigh. It’s shaking, just a little. 'Call Bolly.’

Andy’s head had been tipped back, staring at the ceiling, but it snaps forward suddenly. ‘What.’

Brandon presses a barely-there kiss to the head of Andy’s dick, and smiles. ‘You should call Bolly. I bet he misses us.’

'I— aren’t we kind of… busy, right now?’ Andy says, incredulous. 'I don’t plan on being very good conversation for the next twenty minutes or so.’

'I’m sure he’ll forgive you,’ Brandon says with a smirk, and leans back to swipe his phone off the coffee table.

Bolly picks up almost immediately, sounds warm and happy to hear from Brandon.

'Hey, Andy wants to talk to you,’ Brandon says, and hands the phone straight off.

’ _Hey, brat_ ,’ Brandon hears from the other end of the phone. Andy glares at Brandon before answering.

'Hey babe, I miss you. Does Calgary still suck?’

Brandon hears Bolly laughing. He has his hands on Andy’s thighs, spreading them open. His thumbs are dipped into the crease of Andy’s groin. He pushes down, tiny amount of pressure. Andy glares harder. Brandon smiles up at him, innocent as anything.

Andy’s midsentence when Brandon puts the head of his dick in his mouth and sucks gently. ‘—yeah me and Bra _ndon, fuck—’_

His free hand flies out and buries itself in Brandon’s hair, tugging. Brandon grins, and mouths up and down the length of Andy’s dick carefully. He hears Bolly ask a question that he can’t quite make out.

'Your terrible boyfriend is sucking my dick while I’m on the phone,’ Andy says, with a pointed tug on Brandon’s hair. Brandon swats him on the thigh, and nuzzles at the base of his dick. Andy inhales.

’ _Yeah, I bet that’s a real hardship_ ,’ Brandon hears Bolly say. ‘ _Put me on speakerphone_.’

Andy looks down at Brandon, tracing the underside of his dick with the point of his tongue. He pauses, thinks about it, nods. Andy sighs in relief, hits the speakerphone button and tosses the phone on the sofa, getting both hands in Brandon’s hair and throwing his head back.

’ _Hey, beautiful_ ,’ Bolly says. ‘ _I hear you’re bullying our boyfriend_.’

'Only a little bit,’ Brandon says. 'In my defence, I’m also being very, very nice. I could be a lot meaner,’ he points out. 'Remember your last birthday?’

’ _Yeah_ ,’ Bolly says, with a sigh. ‘ _That was great_.  _Wanna tell me what you’re doing to him?_ ’

'Love to,’ Brandon says. 'My mouth is about to get real busy though. Why don’t you get Andy to tell you?’

Bolly chuckles, dark and low, and something in Brandon’s stomach curls pleasantly. It’s one of his favourite Bolly sounds. He misses it.

When he closes his mouth around Andy’s dick again, Andy’s way more blatant about it, choking out a short, cut off sound. 

 _'What’s he doing, babe_?’ Bolly asks.

'Got his mouth on me,’ Andy manages. 'Pressing— pressing against the slit. Feels real good.’

Brandon hums in approval, and he slides in a little deeper, hollowing his cheeks. Andy’s grip tightens. His thigh muscles are tensing already. Brandon curves his tongue, dragging it along the length. Andy’s breaths are already getting a little uneven. 

Brandon’s nose bumps against Andy’s pelvis, and he pauses, breathing carefully through his nose. His eyes are closed, but he knows exactly what Andy looks like right now, flushed all the way down his chest. He’s still running his mouth to Bolly, talking about how warm, how wet, how good Brandon’s mouth is. He pulls off suddenly, and Andy whines, jerks his hips forward. The tip of his dick catches Brandon’s lower lip, smears it with precome and spit. Brandon licks it off, and Andy makes a soft sound.

'You okay?’ Andy asks, quiet and gentle and Brandon loves him so much suddenly. He nods.

'Yeah. Just needed a breather.’ He takes one hand off Andy’s thigh and curls it around his dick, thumb rubbing at the head in tiny circles. Andy moans.

’ _What’s he doing now, Andy?’_  Bolly asks, calm and even, grounding.

'Hand, hand on my dick, thumb pressing at the head.’

'Wish you were here, Bolly,’ Brandon says. 'Miss you.’

Bolly’s quiet for a moment. Brandon thinks maybe the call dropped, but then, ‘ _I miss you guys so much I can’t believe it sometimes.’_ Brandon doesn’t know what to say to that. ‘ _Now get on with making Andy cry, Saader. You’re using all my international minutes with your feelings_.’

Brandon grins. ‘If you insist,’ he says, closes his mouth around Andy’s dick again, and proceeds to drag sounds, shouts, and even a couple of tears out of him. When he’s pulling off, he can hear Bolly breathing heavily, like he’s coming down from his own high. ‘Did you come?’ he asks, a little disappointed.

’ _Yeah_ ,’ Bolly says. ‘ _Andy’s… distracting_.’

'I missed it,’ Brandon says mournfully.

’ _It’s almost All Star Break_ ,’ Bolly says, getting his breath back. ‘ _How’s about I buy a ticket to you two, and you can experience it in person?’_

Brandon glances up at Andy, who’s got that slack, post orgasm expression on, but he’s smiling loosely. ‘Yeah,’ he says, kissing Andy’s kneecap before climbing up onto the sofa between him and the phone. ‘Sounds perfect.’

’ _Love you guys_ ,’ Bolly says. ‘ _See you soon_.’

Brandon hates the beep of him hanging up, even now.


	37. Saad/Seabrook, orgasm denial

One of Brent’s very favourite things about Brandon is how bossy he is. Honestly. He knows what he likes, especially in bed, and it’s  _great_. Brent’s a pretty laid back guy, he’s happy to let Brandon take the lead. Most of the time.

It’s Brandon’s birthday. They’ve been out for a meal, Brent’s sung loudly and out of tune in public to embarrass him, they’ve come home and Brent’s stuck a candle into one of the peanut butter protein cookies Tazer’s gotten Brandon addicted to, Brandon’s blown it out and pretended to make a wish.

‘I want my present,’ Brandon says, suddenly. There are cookie crumbs at the corner of his mouth. Brent brushes them away with his thumb.

'What makes you think you got a present?’ he says absently. 'Dinner was  _very_  expensive.’

Brandon opens his mouth, outraged. Brent keeps a straight face for about three seconds before creasing into laughter. ‘I got you a present, don’t worry. You’re such a brat sometimes.’

Brandon pouts. Brent kisses him. He tastes like peanut butter and the wine they drank with dinner. It’s not unpleasant. Brandon smiles into the kiss, and leans forward until he’s tumbled into Brent’s lap, knees either side of his hips. ‘Hey,’ Brent says, quiet.

'Hey,’ Brandon says. He kisses Brent’s nose. 'Can I have my present now?’

Brent hums. ‘I suppose so.’ He kisses him again, brief, rough, tugging at Brandon’s lip with his teeth. He whacks Brandon on the ass. ‘Come on, up. Bedroom.’

Brandon lights up, and scrambles off the couch.

Brent is more sedate, following him to the bedroom. He undoes his tie on the way, sliding it from around his neck and dropping it just outside the bedroom. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, without ceremony, and dumps that too. 

Brandon’s lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. He grins when Brent enters, dragging his gaze up and down Brent’s bare torso.

'What’s my present?’ he asks. Brent toes off his shoes, leans against the doorway to peel his socks off, and unbuttons his pants. Brandon is watching him, hungry.

'Patience,’ Brent chides him, with a grin. Brandon pulls a face at him. 'Shirt off, babe. You have catching up to do.’

Brandon sits up, unbuttons a couple of buttons and tugs his shirt over his head, leaving it crumpled on the floor. He slides his pants off easily, taking his underwear with it. ‘Now who has catching up to do?’ he says, arching an eyebrow at Brent’s underwear.

'They’re staying on,’ Brent says. 'At least for a while.’

Brandon pouts. Brent joins him on the bed, puts his weight on him and kisses him slow and deep, rolls their hips together. Brandon bites at his lower lip, hard, and Brent pulls away. ‘Behave, you,’ he says, and Brandon laughs, delighted.

'What you gonna do about it, Seabrook?’ he teases.

Brent hums in thought, kissing his way down Brandon’s throat, pausing to nip at his collarbone. ‘I have a couple of ideas,’ he says, flicking the point of his tongue over one of Brandon’s nipples, just to hear him hiss.

'Oh yeah?’ Brandon says, but his voice is a little tight. Brent kisses down his sternum, tracing a circle around his belly button, nipping at the sensitive skin just underneath it.

'Mm,’ Brent says, breathing warm air over the tip of Brandon’s dick. 'Turn over, sweetheart.’

Brandon shivers, and turns over.

Brandon isn’t the biggest fan of Brent’s mouth a lot of the time, Brent’s too lazy to shave, and Brandon doesn’t like the scratch of his stubble. But Brent is freshly shaved for Brandon’s birthday, and when he parts Brandon’s cheeks and flicks his tongue lightly over the ring of muscle there, Brandon’s body goes tense. Brent bites gently at the meat of Brandon’s ass, gets him to buck his hips a little. 

'You’re a dick,’ Brandon says, breathy. When Brent glances up,  Brandon’s looking up and over his shoulder at him. Brent grins, and bites him again, a little harder.

'If you leave a mark, I’m breaking up with you,’ Brandon says, and shudders when Brent huffs a laugh, warm air over sensitive skin. He kisses the faint imprint of his teeth softly, and digs his thumbs into the meat again, opening him up.

Brent presses the flat of his tongue against Brandon’s perineum, drags it up and over his rim, tracing all the way up to the small of his back. Brandon lets out a breath, slow and deliberately even. Brent does it again, and again, until he can hear Brandon’s control starting to fray. His breaths are coming a little quicker, a little more uneven. He waits until Brandon’s inhaled slowly before pointing his tongue and pushing it into him. Brandon tenses up around him, and he makes a bitten off sound. He lifts his hips, pushing back onto Brent’s tongue, coming up onto his elbows and knees slightly. Brent runs a hand down the outside of his thigh. He can feel the faint shaking in the muscle there.

Brandon likes it sloppier than most, so Brent makes a mess as he opens him up with his tongue. He slides the tips of his thumbs in to hold him open better, so he can lick inside him, slowly, making his back arch, and he makes a noise that sounds a lot like a sob. Brent curls his tongue, and it happens again. He grins, and moves down to mouth at Brandon’s balls gently.

Brandon’s dick is trapped under his body. He can’t reach it himself, balanced on his elbows like he is. Brent curls a hand around it experimentally and gets a satisfying whine as Brandon tries to push back on his tongue and forward into his hand at the same time. He gives it a couple of rough strokes before letting it go and hooking around Brandon’s inner thigh, forcing his knees a little wider apart. ‘Brent,’ Brandon says, the first time he’s spoken since they started. ‘Brent, please, I can’t—’

Brent shushes him quietly, blowing air over where Brandon’s wet and open and so pink, making him shift again. ‘You’re doing so well, sweetheart.’

'I want—’ Brandon starts, and cuts himself off. Brent presses an open mouthed kiss to Brandon’s rim.

'Come on, babe,’ he coaxes. 'You gotta ask me for what you want.’

Brandon just breathes for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. His voice is tight and a little high when he finally says, ‘Fuck me.’

Brent smiles. He runs a hand up Brandon’s back, slick with sweat. ‘Whatever you want, sweetheart.’

He goes to get the lube, and when he gets back, Brandon’s rolled over onto his back, hand curled loosely around his dick. He’s not moving, but he’s looking at Brent with hooded eyes, like he’s challenging him.

Brandon’s already kind of loose from Brent’s tongue, but he stretches him anyway, a slow push of three fingers. Brandon’s head tilts back and his body is just a long line from chin to cock, flushed and tense and perfect as his jaw goes slack and he lets another gorgeous sound out.

Brandon’s entire body goes tight when Brent pushes in, and his back arches. Brent puts a hand on Brandon’s belly, just above his dick. ‘Don’t come,’ he says, barely louder than a whisper. Brandon whimpers, and his face twists.

He’s fucking beautiful like this, Brent knows, and he starts to move, tiny rolls of his hips, and Brandon’s face just breaks open. Every single emotion is written across it plain as day. Brent leans down and kisses him, fast and messy, and Brandon clings to him, crossing his ankles at the small of Brent’s back.

'Fuck me,  _please_ ,’ he says between kisses, and he sounds so far gone that Brent can’t  _not_.

He fucks some truly incredible sounds out of him, bending him almost in half and fucking him until there’s a steady stream of filth falling off his tongue, talking about how much he loves this, loves getting fucked by Brent, loves his dick, his hands, his tongue, loves  _Brent_  so much, how much he wants to come, please Brent, let me come,  _please_ , and Brent’s so close himself that he can’t deny Brandon this, not now, and he speeds up, fists Brandon’s dick and jerks him off until he’s coming all over Brent’s hand and his own stomach. Brent comes pretty soon after, and Brandon makes a soft, vaguely uncomfortable sound when he pulls out. Brent kisses just above his belly button in apology and ties the condom off, tossing it into the trash can by the bed.

Brent’s rarely fucked him to the point of bonelessness, but Brandon’s sprawled across the bed, limbs starfished, and when Brent climbs off the bed to get a washcloth, Brandon doesn’t respond. He’s almost completely asleep when Brent comes back, wipes off his stomach and thighs, lifting one knee so he can clean between his cheeks carefully. He kisses the side of Brandon’s kneecap in apology when Brandon’s face twists uncomfortably, but then he’s done, and he dumps the washcloth on the floor to muscle his way in around Brandon. He kisses his cheek, his temple, his forehead, and Brandon opens one eye sleepily.

'Love you,’ he mumbles, and curls into Brent’s chest.

'Happy birthday,’ Brent says back, and gets a wide, genuine smile back.

'Best birthday ever,’ Brandon says. 'Sleep now though.’

 


	38. Saad/Sharp, PWP

Brandon’s more than a little bit drunk right now, and he knows, okay, he  _knows_  this is a bad idea, but as he’s winding his arms around Patrick’s waist and kissing the back of his neck as he tries to get his key in the lock of his apartment door, he figures he can always regret it later.

He dips his hand underneath the hem of Patrick’s shirt and puts his palm on the flat expanse of his belly, presses down to feel the muscles twitch as he bites at Patrick’s delts gently. 

Patrick swats at him with his free hand, but he’s chuckling as he finally manages to get the door open, and they tumble into his entryway. He twists in Brandon’s grip and manages to press his lips to Brandon’s, and they stand in the doorway tangled together, Brandon’s hands on Patrick’s hips, until one of them has the presence of mind to swipe at the door until it clicks shut.

Patrick crowds Brandon against the wall, Brandon has a very slight weight advantage, but Patrick surprises him, slots a leg between his thighs and kisses him again. Brandon rolls his hips rubbing off on Patrick’s thigh a little, and smirks into the kiss. He moves his hands up from Patrick’s waist to cradle his jaw, change the angle of the kiss.

‘Wanna take this to the bedroom?’ Patrick says, breaking the kiss to bite at Brandon’s throat, jaw, earlobe. Brandon hums in pleasure as Patrick’s tongue flicks against the shell of his ear.

'Or,’ Brandon says, slowly. 'You could blow me right here.’

Patrick presses one last open mouthed kiss to the hollow of Brandon’s throat and pulls back to look at him. 'Or I could do that,’ he says.

Brandon tangles a hand in Patrick’s hair. It’s getting long. 'You should probably get this cut soon,’ he says, idly, tugging on it experimentally.

Patrick’s jaw drops, and his eyes go dark and liquid and hot. He’s completely silent. He drops to his knees without a word. Brandon stares. He grips Patrick’s hair a little tighter, tugs it so his chin is tilted up.

Patrick  _moans_. It’s the hottest sound Brandon’s ever heard. He wants Patrick to make it forever. 'You okay, babe?’ he asks, quietly.

Patrick’s eyes are hooded and unfocused. 'Feels good,’ he manages. 'Real good.’

Brandon grins. With his free hand, he works his dick out of his pants, traces the head of it over Patrick’s lower lip. He shivers, and tries to mouth at the head, but Brandon’s grip on his hair keeps him where he is.

'Please,’ he says, breathless. When Brandon glances down, he’s tenting his own pants in a pretty big way.

Patrick’s not looking at Brandon’s face. His eyes are fixed on his dick, watching it bob faintly. Brandon feeds it to him slowly, and watches his eyes turn to slits.

When Patrick’s nose is brushing the coarse curls at the base of his dick, Brandon tugs on his hair again. The sound reverberates all the way along his dick and into the pit of his stomach, and Brandon didn’t know it was possible to look blissful with a mouth full of dick, but Patrick’s managing it pretty well.

He pushes the thumb of his free hand into the corner of Patrick’s mouth where it’s stretched wide. He whines, and opens his eyes to look up at Brandon. He loosens his grip enough that Patrick can move his head, and he plants his hands around Brandon’s hips, and goes to town, bobbing his head up and down. It’s shocking to no one, Brandon thinks, that Patrick Sharp is as good as sucking dick as he is at mouthing off at people. He’s been running his mouth at Brandon all night, with that sleazy, dirty grin he has, and now, with him on his knees in his own apartment, Brandon realises how satisfying it is to just shut him up.

His stomach muscles start to tense when he gets close, and he tightens his grip on Patrick’s hair, tugs him backwards. He goes so easy, so pliable, and Brandon really,  _really_ wants to explore that further. Patrick opens his eyes and looks up at him, mouth swollen and red and shiny. 'Was that not okay?’ he asks, and he sounds  _wrecked_. Brandon almost comes on the spot.

'It was perfect,’ he says, and Patrick preens, smug. 'I just want to fuck you, is all.’

The smug looks vanishes. Patrick swallows. Brandon tugs on his hair again, and Patrick rises to his feet, a little unsteady. 'Now we can go to the bedroom,’ he says, and lets Patrick lead the way, stepping out of their clothes as they go.

He fucks Patrick on his hands and knees, one hand pressing bruises into his hip, the other pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck, where it’s long and curling. Patrick makes some honestly incredible sounds when he’s being fucked, loud and long and Brandon really hopes he has understanding neighbours, because he sounds a little bit like a pornstar, fucking himself back onto Brandon’s dick until he comes without even a hand on his own dick, spilling onto the sheets with a cry.

Brandon lets go of his hair to grab his hips with both hands, and his head sags forward like a string’s been cut, Brandon fucking into him faster and faster until he’s whimpering at the overstimulation, but when Brandon slows down, he sobs, ’ _Don’t stop_ ,’ so Brandon doesn’t.

When Brandon comes, Patrick’s incoherent, and when Brandon drapes himself across Patrick’s back, thighs trembling with exertion, he collapses into the wet spot, making a mournful sound. Brandon laughs, and kisses his shoulderblade.

'You okay?’ he asks. Patrick nods, making an unintelligible sound. 

Brandon ends up sitting against the headboard, Patrick braced between the vee of his legs, Brandon stroking careful fingertips through his hair and pressing kisses to his temple every so often while he dozes. Brandon falls asleep not long after.

 


	39. Bollig/Saad/Shaw, talking about (but not having) sex

Brandon loves living with Andy. Honestly. For all the noise, he’s a pretty chill roommate, he never forgets to buy milk, and he has the sickest video game setup Brandon’s ever seen.

The worst thing about living with Andy is that Brandon keeps walking in on him and his hook-ups slash boyfriend-of-the-months. He thinks this one might be called Brendan. Or maybe Brandon. He’s not sure. Andy calls him Bolly, most of the time, which seems too bro-y for someone you’re sleeping with, but, well, Andy’s choice.

The first time he walks in on them, Andy’s on his knees in the kitchen, and Bolly (Brendan? Brandon?) is swearing up a storm and pulling at his hair. Brandon leaves before they notice him.

The second time, Bolly’s bending Andy over the back of the couch. They notice him that time, because he drops his bag of groceries. Everyone is appropriately embarrassed, and Bolly promises it won’t happen again.

The third time it happens, Brandon makes the mistake of walking straight into Andy’s room. He usually knocks, but his hands are full of papers he has to mark by Tuesday, so he just pushes it open, saying, ‘Hey, you in?’ and then not saying very much.

Bolly has Andy facedown on the bed, wrists crossed over and bound with coarse rope. The knots are clumsy, and it’s kind of dark, but Brandon can see where the rope’s rubbed his wrists raw. 'You need to stop,’ he says. Bolly’s balls deep in Andy, sweat beading on his back and forehead. He looks at Brandon, back at Andy, and then his mouth forms an oh of understanding.

'No, it’s fine, I promise, it’s consensual, he asked–’

'No, I mean, you’re going to hurt him if you tie his wrists like that, look,’ Brandon approaches the bed and runs his finger along where the skin is a little blistered. Andy makes a pained sound.

Bolly looks horrified. 'Oh my god,’ he says. 'Andy, I’m sorry, I didn’t–’

Brandon tugs at the knot gently, and unties him. Bolly pulls out, gets rid of the condom, puts his pants on. Brandon turns Andy’s wrists over, flipping on the bedside lamp to look at them. They looks wore, but the skin’s not too broken. 

'I’ve got some cream for this,’ he says. 'I’ll be back in a second.’

'Honestly, I one hundred percent advocate tying Andy up, he’s annoying as fuck and tying people up is a ton of fun,’ Brandon says on his return, rubbing the cream into Andy’s wrists slowly. They’re sitting in a triangle on Andy’s bed, with the curtains open. Andy makes an indignant noise. Bolly tips his head in agreement.

But,’ Brandon says. 'There’s a safe way to tie people up, and an unsafe way. You can’t tie him up using this kind of rope, or using that knot, you’ll shred his wrists and cut off the circulation to his hands.’

'I do need my hands,’ Andy says, and hisses when Brandon catches a sore spot.

'I’ve never done this before,’ Bolly admits. 'I kind of figured as long as Andy wasn’t telling me it hurt, I was okay?’

'Andy’s an idiot,’ Brandon says. 'He doesn’t know what’s good for him.’

Bolly nods, slowly. 'Will you show me? The safe way, I mean.’

Brandon nods. 'When Andy’s wrists are healed up. We can’t use this though,’ he says, holding the coil of rope up. 'It’s way too rough. I have some we can use.’

Andy looks up at that. Brandon keeps his face carefully blank. He lets go of Andy’s wrist. 'There. Keep 'em clean.’ He looks at Bolly. 'Don’t tie him up until he’s healed, I don’t care what he says.’

Bolly nods, leans over and kisses Andy’s bare shoulder in apology. 'Thanks,’ he says. Brandon nods, and taps Bolly’s knee in response, climbing off the bed.

He leaves them to their business, collecting his abandoned papers on his way out.

-

Brandon is interrupted from his work by Andy sticking his hands in Brandon’s face.

’…Can I help you?’ he asks, looking up from his book. Andy waves his hands. 

'All healed!’ he says, grinning.

Brandon looks at them, and they are in fact, smooth and even. Andy looks like his face is gonna split in half.

'Come show Bolly how to tie me up!’ he says. 

Brandon rolls his eyes, and folds the corner of his book. 'Fine. I’ll be in in a second.’

Andy’s lying on his belly in the middle of the bed when Brandon gets there. Bolly’s running an easy hand through his hair, next to him. 'What’s in the box?’ Andy asks.

'Stuff. Roll over.’

Brandon sets the box on Andy’s desk and fishes out a couple of coils of soft black rope. 'This is multi-fiber propylene. It’s way softer than hemp or coconut rope, holds colour better, but it’s a little harder to work with.’ As he’s talking, he’s arranging Andy’s wrists above his head, looping a coil around the headboard. 'This is a cow hitch. It’s for anchoring the rope to something, like the headboard.’ He starts looping the other end of the rope around Andy’s wrists. 'This is a [double column tie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJssecnWFvg). It’s for tying two things together.’ He tightens the knot. Andy’s wearing loose sweats, but he’s definitely starting to tent them, gently. Bolly’s laser focused on the rope. 'There’s enough give that it shouldn’t rub, and he can struggle as much as he likes without having to worry about cutting off the circulation.’

He leaves Andy there for a few moments before untying it easily. He uncrosses Andy’s wrists and spreads his arms. He takes a shorter coil of rope, ties it to the bedpost, and then loops the other end around Andy’s wrist. 'This is a single column tie. Basically the same thing, but better if you want to tie his arms or legs apart. You gotta be careful with this tie though, it’s much easier to damage the shoulders if he struggles too much.’ Bolly nods, and Brandon unties him again.

'On your knees, Andy. Hands behind your back.’ He sits behind him, and loops the double column tie around his wrists again, before turning him so Bolly can see. 'Just like the first one, see?’

He leaves Andy tied like this, and gathers a slightly thicker rope. He starts looping it around his fingers, slowly, so Bolly can follow. 'This is a monkey fist. Have you used gags before?’ Bolly nods.

Brandon finishes it off, and taps Andy on the chin with two fingers. He opens up obediently. 'If you ever put rope in his mouth, you have to sanitise it first. Everything in that box is clean.’ He slots the rope in, ties it neatly at the base of his skull with a reef knot. 'You okay?’ he says quietly to Andy, hand on the nape of his neck. Andy swallows, and nods. He’s definitely tenting his sweats now, the beginnings of a dark spot appearing. 'If you ever can’t talk, click your fingers as a verbal safeword.’ He looks over at Bolly. 'You have to be aware of him all the time. You can’t get distracted. You gotta check on him all the time.’

Bolly nods. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Andy.

Brandon climbs off the bed, coils the spare rope neatly and leaves it on the desk. He flips the lid of his box shut, and gathers it up. 'Rope never goes around his throat. Never. I don’t care how much he likes to be choked.’ Bolly flushes a little at that, but Brandon’s seen the faint bruises.

'I’ll leave you guys to it,’ Brandon says, nudging the door open. 'Have fun.’

He tries to sound breezy as he leaves, to disguise how much he wants to stay and help take Andy apart. It’s not his place, he thinks. 

He gets all the way to the room of his door before he hears his name. Bolly’s leaning in the doorway of Andy’s room, grinning cautiously. 'You don’t wanna stay?’

 


	40. Hartnell/Johansen, PWP

Scott has freckles on his shoulders. They only really come out in the sun, but they’re scattered across his shoulders and all down the top of his back and arms. Ryan loves them.

Scott’s lying on his stomach in bed, half asleep, and Ryan’s tapping on his back idly, feather-light touches. ‘What are you doing?’ Scott asks him, turning his head to look at him. Ryan’s half-grinning at him, soft.

'Counting. You have a lot of freckles.’

Scott hums, and stretches. 

'Can I draw on you?’ Ryan asks, pausing in his tapping.

'Sure,’ Scott says, mostly asleep by now. 'Draw a dick and I’ll never touch yours again.’

Ryan looks scandalised. 'I would  _never_ ,’ he says, but he’s rolling over to reach a ballpoint pen from the bedside table.

Scott drifts off to Ryan pressing the pen lightly on his shoulderblade. He tries for a while to figure out what Ryan’s drawing, but he’s asleep before long.

He wakes up with the click of the camera on Ryan’s phone, and Ryan kissing his cheek. 'Wake up,’ he whispers, and Scott opens one eye. 'Wanna see what I drew?’ he asks, and Scott gives him a smile.

'Sure, love,’ he says.

Ryan hasn’t drawn anything in particular, just neat swirls and swooping lines, all abstract and dark blue waves across his back all the way down to where the sheet’s have pooled at the small of his back. 'Very pretty,’ he confirms, and Ryan beams, and flops down in the bed beside him.

Is it my turn now?’ Scott asks, reaching for the abandoned pen. Ryan’s eyes go a little wide.

'Yeah,’ he says. 'Okay.’ He tugs his t-shirt off and rolls onto his belly, pillowing his chin with folded forearms.

Scott straddles his back, just above his ass, and drags a hand down the broad expanse of his back, knocking against the knobs of his spine on the way. Ryan shudders, but stays quiet.

Scott starts out by writing M I N E in block capitals, between his shoulder blades. He writes his name underneath, and 43 under that, like a smaller version of the back of his jersey.

He writes 'GOOD BOY’ down the line of his spine, in tiny, neat letters, and then again where the curve of his ribs end. He curls his hand around the other side of his ribcage and draws around it, leaving a ballpoint handprint across the span of his torso. He gives in to temptation, and draws a couple of small hearts in random places. Ryan doesn’t have to know. He writes 'MINE’ again across the small of his back, shuffles backward so it’s just above the swell of his ass. Ryan tenses up at that, and Scott remembers the sensitive skin there. He bends down and kisses above the writing, swiping his tongue over the bare skin and is rewarded with Ryan rolling his hips into the mattress. He makes a soft sound, one that Scott’s never heard before.

'What are you writing?’ Ryan asks, and Scott has to pause, because  _fuck_. He sounds totally wrecked already, hoarse like he’s been screaming, out of it like Scott’s been fucking him for hours. It’s incredible.

'Shh,’ Scott says, bending over to whisper in his ear. 'Be good, and I’ll show you after, 'kay?’ Ryan nods, and buries his face in the crease of his elbow.

He gets a little more lewd after that, writing 'EASY’ across a delt, and going all out and writing 'SPANK ME’ across the meat of his ass. He slaps him on the ass when he’s done that one, surprising a whine out of him.

'Scotty…’ he says, quiet and broken sounding. Scott caps the pen, and sits back. Ryan’s back is a long, trembling line of tension. He looks like he’s going to go off if Scott touches him again. He leans forward and presses a biting, messy kiss to the nape of his neck, and Ryan’s entire body goes tight. 'Please tell me what you wrote,’ Ryan says, weak and thin, and he’s being  _so_ good for Scott, Scott can’t not. He breathes all the words into his ear, close enough that his chest is pressed up against his back, smearing the ink between them, his lips catching Ryan’s earlobe every time he talks. Ryan’s shaking and his hips are jerking against the bed, and his eyes are unfocused, a little wild.

He’s seen Ryan this easy before, but never quite like this. He’s so quiet, just making these tiny, soft sounds into the sheets. He’s not begging. He’s just. Shaking apart.

'Hey,’ Scott says. 'Babe. Baby. You okay, Joey?’

Ryan lifts his head. It looks like a struggle. It takes him three attempts to get the word, 'Green,’ out.

Scott twists his neck to kiss him on the lips, soft. 'You’re doing so well,’ he says, and Ryan makes a content sound into his mouth. 'You’re being so good, love,’ he says, and kisses him again.

He drags his dick across the crease of Ryan’s ass, up the small of his back, and Ryan bucks again. When Scott sits back, the ink is smeared, but legible. He scrapes blunt fingernails down the words gently, scratching across his sides, where he’s almost ticklish he’s so sensitive, drags a hand underneath him and across his belly, where he can feel the stickiness of precome beaded there.

Scott rocks his hips into him again and he makes a strangled sound, goes tense and trembling and then goes limp, collapsing into the sheets with Scott’s weight on him. Scott kisses his shoulder blade and rolls off, coaxing Ryan onto his back. He’s covered in his own come, smeared up his stomach and across the tops of his thighs as he softens.

'Oh, love,’ he says, and Ryan blinks up at him, bleary eyed.

'Love you,’ Ryan mumbles, and shuffles closer to Scott. Scott just gathers him up, kisses his forehead, and promises that he loves him too.

 


	41. Hartnell/Johansen, orgasm denial

When Scott gets back to the hotel room after a game, he never takes his suit off. He undoes his tie and leaves it hanging around his neck, undoes the top button of his shirt, takes his jacket off, but he mostly just hangs around in his dress shirt and pants until he goes to bed.

Sometimes this is because he just can’t be bothered to get changed into something he’ll be taking off to sleep in anyway.

Sometimes it’s because Ryan goes fucking nuts at the friction from the material over his bare skin when Scott spreads him out on the sheets, naked.

‘Scotty,’ Ryan whines, and his hands are tugging on Scott’s hair. Scott looks up at him.

'Hands,’ he says, and Ryan turns red, untangles them from Scott’s curls and grips the headboard again. Scott goes back to trailing his lips across Ryan’s collarbone, across a yellowing bruise there. He bites at it gently, and Ryan makes a soft, tight sound.

He rubs one of Ryan’s nipples, hard, with a thumb, and Ryan makes a louder sound, and bucks his hips a little, smearing precome. Scott’s going to have to get this shirt dry cleaned.

'Shhh,’ Scott whispers, dragging his lips down Ryan’s sternum, kissing just above his belly button. 'Be good, babe.’

'I  _am_ ,’ Ryan says, petulant. Scott glances up his body at him, sees his white knuckles clinging to the headboard. He kisses his belly again and sits back on his heels.

The flush in Ryan’s cheeks is starting to spread down his throat and across his chest, like it always does. He looks fucking gorgeous, lit up like this.

Scott curves a hand around Ryan’s dick and jacks it once, twice, three times, thumbing at the slit. Ryan throws his head back. The head is already starting to redden, and when he puts a calming hand on Ryan’s thigh, he can feel the muscles twitching.

'Wanna touch you,’ Ryan says, whining.

'You know that’s not allowed yet, love,’ Scott says, and he starts jacking Ryan again, putting one hand flat on his belly to hold his hips to the mattress. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Ryan’s pouting down at him, so he twists his wrist and glances up in time to see the expression get wiped off Ryan’s face. His lips part, and his eyes slide closed. He looks wrecked already, and Scott’s barely touched him.

'Scotty,’ he says again, and he has to force the word out, breathless. 'Scotty, I’m gonna–’

'You know the rules, babe. Not until I say you can,’ Scott says, but he does slow down a little, takes the edge off just a tiny bit.

It doesn’t help. Ryan’s face goes tight, and so do all his muscles, and he comes into Scott’s hand and on his own belly.

Scott takes his hand away and sits there quietly, waits for Ryan to catch his breath.

'Sorry,’ Ryan says eventually, breathing the word out. 'I’m– I’m sorry, Scotty. I didn’t mean–’

Scott shushes him again. 'It’s okay, baby. You just gotta make up for it, 'kay?’

Ryan nods, and uncurls his hands from the headboard, flexing stiff fingers. 

Scott slides the tie from around his neck. 'Put your hands back, please. We’re not done.’

Ryan looks at him, but puts his hands back up, crosses them at the wrist. Scott loops his tie around them easily, securing them to the headboard. He tests the give carefully.

'Colour?’ he says. Ryan licks at his lower lip.

'Green,’ he says. ’ _Green_.’

Scott grins. 'Good boy.’

He leaves Ryan there while he goes to wash his hands off, roll the sleeves of his shirt off. He comes back with a bottle of lube and a damp cloth that he uses to clean Ryan off gently. His dick is softening rapidly, but it starts thickening again when he rubs the cloth over the head and down the underside. Ryan makes a whimpering sound.

Scott dumps the cloth on the floor and shoves Ryan’s thighs apart, slicking up a couple of fingers easily. He looks Ryan in the eye as he slides the first one in, watches him go a little unfocused and blurry. He shifts on Scott’s finger almost uncomfortably, makes a pained sound. Scott stops. 'You okay?’ he asks, softly.

Ryan grits his teeth and nods. 'It’s just a lot,’ he manages. 'Keep going.’

Scott kisses Ryan’s kneecap, and pushes a second finger in. That makes Ryan moan, long and low, and he tries to cut it off, but he doesn’t quite manage it.

Ryan’s almost all the way hard again, and Scott takes a second to marvel at the refractory period of the young. He remembers that. He’s up to three fingers now, and Ryan’s shameless with it, trying to buck his hips and fuck himself on Scott’s hand, dick bobbing up and down on his stomach, Scott’s name falling easily from Ryan’s lips mixed in with  _fuck_ and  _please_  and  _gonna come_.

'Don’t come,’ Scott says. 'You’re doing so good, love, don’t come yet.’

Scott rolls the condom on and slides into Ryan in one motion. He’s tugging at the tie like he can’t help himself, and his face is screwed up, mouth hanging open and he’s almost sobbing.

Scott watches a tear squeeze out of his closed eyes and trickle down his face. When Scott starts moving, more of them rapidly follow, until he’s actually sobbing, tears running down his face and he can’t seem to form proper words.

'Don’t come,’ Scott says, over and over. 'Don’t come, baby, not yet, you’re being such a good boy for me, don’t come.’

Ryan cries out when Scott comes, but he doesn’t come. He’s gulping for breath, and he makes a horrible face when Scott pulls out. 'Too much, too much,’ he chokes out, between gasps. Scott runs a hand over his thigh in apology and leans in to kiss him, high on the cheekbone. He tastes like salt.

'You did so good, Joey,’ he says, quietly. 'So good.’

'Please let me come,’ Ryan says, broken. 'Please, Scotty,  _please_.’

'Babe,’ Scott says, swiping the tears away with the pad of his thumb. 'You came too early before. You know that means you don’t get to come again tonight. Next time,' he says, as he slowly unties Ryan's wrists, 'you'll know to be good.'

Ryan’s almost incoherent with it, tears running down his cheeks. ‘Please,’ he says, almost sobbing. ‘ _Please_ , Scotty.’

‘Shhh,’ Scott says, rubbing one wrist gently, then the other. 'You know I can’t.’

Ryan sniffles, leans into Scott, kisses his jaw clumsily. ‘I promise I’ll be good,’ he says, wiping at his cheeks. ‘I promise I’ll be  _so good_.’

'I know you will, love,’ Scott says, easing him into a sitting position so he can work the muscles in Ryan’s shoulders that have probably cramped up from being in the same position for so long. 'But you know that this is happening because you weren’t good.’

Ryan draws in a shuddery breath. ‘Can I—  _please_?’ He makes an aborted movement towards his dick. He looks uncomfortably hard, dick flushed and curving up towards his belly. Scott almost feels bad grabbing his wrist and pressing it to the bed.

'Come on, Joey, you know better than that.’

'But I need to— it  _hurts_ , Scotty.’ Scott kisses his temple, runs his free hand down.

'You’re okay, love. You’re okay. Give me a colour, Joey.’

Ryan sniffles again. The hand caught in Scott’s grip is flexing. ‘Green,’ he says, turning to bury his face in Scott’s chest. Scott lets go of his wrist and brings his hand up to cradle the back of his skull, digging his fingers into the damp curls.

Ryan’s rolling his hips into Scott, tiny circular movements that are definitely against the rules. Scott puts his other hand on the small of Ryan’s back, stills him.

'I wanna come, Scotty,’ Ryan says, into his sternum. 'Please let me come, I won’t break any of the rules ever again, I  _promise_.’

Scott drags his hand up and down Ryan’s spine, soothing. He can feel Ryan’s erection pressing into his hip, little jerky movements every time he reaches the nape of Ryan’s neck with his fingers.

He knows his own rules. He knows Ryan isn’t allowed to come tonight. He knows that Ryan’s just mouthing off at him, that he knows the rules too, that he’s happy with the rules, or he wouldn’t have said green.

Ryan’s body is trembling. The heat is pouring off him. ‘Please,’ he sobs. ‘Please, Scotty, I need—’

Scott grips the nape of his neck, hard. Ryan stops talking.

'Can you stay quiet for me, love?’ Scott asks, low and calm, in the shell of his ear. Ryan nods. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he says nothing.

'Good boy,’ Scott rumbles. 'Stay quiet for me, and maybe you get to come tonight.’

 

 


	42. Saad/Sharp, PWP

Patrick’s been at Jonny’s housewarming party for twenty minutes before Brandon sidles up to him with a smirk.

‘Wanna christen the guest bathroom?’ he asks, quiet in Patrick’s ear as he’s handing a drink over.

Patrick takes a sip. ‘Does it count as christening if it’s not even our house?’

Brandon shrugs. ‘Is that a no?’

Patrick laughs, and finishes his drink. ‘And pass up a chance to defile Tazer’s new bathroom before he does? No way.’ He grabs Brandon’s hand and they vanish upstairs.

Jonny’s bathroom is decorated in pale blue. There’s a white marble counter around the sink, just below a huge square mirror. Brandon grins. He knows exactly what he wants to do with Patrick here.

Patrick pushes him up against the closed door, flipping the lock shut easily before he kisses him, boxing him against the door. When Brandon pushes him off, Patrick stays, just for a second, long enough for Brandon to stop kissing him. ‘Cute,’ he says, with a smirk. ‘Hands on the sink, babe.’

Patrick smiles back sunnily before turning around, putting his hands on the sink, and tilting his hips so his ass is in the air. Brandon runs a hand over it, before smacking it, hard. Patrick’s hips jump, and he makes a bitten off sound.

Brandon reaches around and pops the button on Patrick’s pants, easing the zipper down slowly. When he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down slowly, he discovers that Patrick’s not wearing underwear. He drops to his knees carefully and bites lightly at the meat of Patrick’s ass, making him flinch.

'Brandon,’ he says, voice tight already.

'Shh,’ Brandon says, digging his thumbs in, pulling his cheeks apart and blowing warm air over Patrick’s rim.

Patrick goes statue-still.

He’s completely silent, right up until the point of Brandon’s tongue pushes inside him carefully, and he lets out this long, drawn-out groan that people downstairs will definitely hear.

'Babe, you gotta be quieter than that,’ Brandon says. 'I don’t want to get kicked out of Jonny’s house before I’ve even finished my beer.’ Said beer is balanced on the counter, well out of reach of Patrick, in case he flails a little. It’s been known to happen.

Patrick takes a deep breath. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters.

'You gonna be good now?’ Brandon asks mildly, pushing the tip of his thumb into Patrick just enough to feel the pushback of the muscle.

Patrick nods, but says nothing. Brandon grins, and licks broad stripes from Patrick’s perineum to the small of his back, lingering over the rim just a little, every time, until he’s sloppy wet with spit, and trembling. When Brandon pushes his tongue in a second time, Patrick makes a high pitched sound, and when Brandon looks up, he’s hunched over the sink, hair falling in his eyes.

Brandon runs a hand up Patrick’s thigh, calming, and goes back to working Patrick open on his tongue. He nudges Patrick’s thighs wider, slips a finger inside his mouth, and sucks hard before pushing it into Patrick slowly, still worrying at the rim with his tongue.

Patrick whimpers Brandon’s name, and he’s gasping like he’s just run ten miles. It’s loud, and it’s noticable, and Brandon pulls out, standing up. Patrick straightens up, looks over his shoulder at him, but Brandon puts a hand between his shoulder blades and pushes. ‘Stay,’ he says, and casts a look around the room, before picking up a handtowel from the rail, twisting it into a rope.

'Open up, sweetheart,’ he says, stepping up behind Patrick. Patrick looks at the towel in his hand and his eyes go hot. 'If you can’t be good, I’m gonna have to make you behave.’

Patrick opens his mouth as wide as he can, and Brandon eases the towel in. It’s thick, pressing down on his tongue, and when he bites down to keep it in place, his dick twitches.

Brandon wraps a hand around his dick and jerks it a couple of times. Patrick whines into the gag, and it’s quiet enough for Brandon, so he goes back to pressing a finger into him slowly, then adding another one.

There’s a bottle of lotion on the counter, and Brandon spills some into his hand, warming it up as best he can before pushing three fingers into Patrick. His hips stutter at that, and he smears precome over the cold marble counter. He’s pouring sweat, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. He looks wild when Brandon catches his eye, biting down so hard on the towel Brandon worries a little bit about his jaw.

When Brandon starts fucking him, the noises don’t get louder, but they do get more urgent, moaning through the towel. His hands are white knuckled on the edge of the sink, and Brandon’s are pressing new bruises layered over the old ones on his ridge of his hips.

'If you come now,’ Brandon says, struggling to get the words out evenly. 'You don’t get to come tonight, understand?’

Patrick curls in on himself a little, but he nods jerkily. Brandon comes not long after that, letting out a series of soft sounds where his lips are pressed to Patrick’s spine. 

Patrick’s panting like a racehorse when Brandon pulls out, on a hair trigger. Brandon runs a hand down his trembling back, and kisses the nape of his neck. ‘You did so good, babe,’ he says, cleaning himself off and tucking himself back in before working the gag out slowly.

Patrick heaves in a huge breath as soon as his mouth is empty.

'You good?’ Brandon asks, using the towel to wipe the lotion and spit off Patrick’s ass and thighs, apologising when he presses down on the oversensitive skin.

Patrick nods. ‘I just. Need a second to catch my breath.’

Brandon pulls his pants back up, tucks his erection in carefully. Patrick’s pants are loose enough and dark enough that it’s barely noticable. Everyone downstairs has had the time to get at least three drinks deep, anyway.

Brandon picks up his beer, takes a long pull, and offers it to Patrick, who takes it and finishes it. He looks at himself in the mirror.

'I look like I’ve just been fucked stupid,’ he says, mildly.

'Well…’ Brandon says. 'I have news for you. You might want to sit down for this.’

Patrick shoves at him lightly and calls him a brat. Brandon laughs and kisses him. ‘You ready to rejoin the masses?’

Patrick looks at himself again. He runs the cold tap and washes his face, finger-combs his hair back. ‘Sure.’

He catches Brandon just before the door. ‘Hey. Love you,’ he says.

'Love you too,’ Brandon says, kissing his cheek and unlocking the door.

-

(Jonny is pink-faced and tight lipped when they get downstairs. He takes one look at them and his jaw drops. ‘Really, guys?’ he says, incredulous. ‘I haven’t even  _peed_  in there yet.’

Andy laughs until he has to sit down. Brandon just grins, unrepentant.)


	43. Shaw/Bollig, PWP

Andy always gets crazy after a win. He can feel the excitement flooding through him and he can’t stay still. He shakes all the way through his post game shower and routine, and his leg jiggles uncontrollably all the way home. He sings, too, off key and terrible, but it makes Brandon laugh all the same.

He forces some food into him when they get back to the apartment, picks up the trail of his suit as he bounces around, losing first the tie, then the jacket, then the shirt.

Brandon watches with amusement for a while, and then Andy lands in his lap with a fuck-me smirk and a roll of his hips. Brandon’s only human.

Andy kisses him, frantic, like they haven’t got all the time in the world, and an off day tomorrow to boot. Brandon tries to slow him down, but he’s biting Brandon’s tongue and rubbing off on his thigh, and Brandon has to pull away, run a hand down his ribcage and tell him to calm down.

‘Want you to fuck me,’ Andy whines, pushing his erection into the hollow of Brandon’s hip.

'Not yet,’ Brandon says, and Andy whines, and wriggles in Brandon’s grip. 'Bedroom,’ Brandon says, and Andy grins again.

'About fucking  _time_ , babe.’

Brandon catches him just outside their bedroom, presses him up against the wall and covers him, boxing him in completely. Andy shivers and tilts his head up for Brandon to kiss him, slow and dirty and it leaves Andy breathless and squirming.

Brandon has one arm slung across Andy’s chest, just below the ridge of his collarbones, pushing hard enough that Andy can’t go anywhere. He drags the other hand down his chest, blunt nails pressing on bruises. Andy hisses, and his eyes go liquid hot, but he doesn’t move.

Brandon pops the button on his pants slowly, eases the zipper down. Andy wears his pants just a little too big, and they fall down his thighs easily.

He’s hard in his underwear, black cotton stretched out by his dick. He arches his back when Brandon palms it softly, dragging the heel of his hand over where he can feel the wet spot.

'Always so eager,’ he murmurs into Andy’s ear, and Andy whines.

'Touch me already,’ he says, trying to push his hips forward into Brandon’s hand. Brandon laughs shortly and moves his hand away.

'Ask nicely,’ Brandon says, dipping his fingertips under the waistband of Andy’s underwear.

Andy looks at him, flushed. 'Come on, Brandon,’ he says, wriggling. 'Fuckin’ touch me.’

Brandon pulls at the elastic, lets it snap back over his hipbone, and Andy gasps.

'Ask nicer,’ Brandon rumbles.

’ _Please_ ,’ Andy says eventually, forcing the word out. 'Please touch me.’

Brandon grins. 'That’s more like it,’ he says, with a smirk, and dips his hand into Andy’s underwear, palming it roughly.

Andy’s back arches, and Brandon has to push his shoulders back against the wall as his other hand starts working.

Andy runs his mouth when they fuck. He runs his mouth all the time, but he’s filthy in bed, bossy too, telling Brandon exactly what he wants, what Brandon’s going to do to him, what Brandon feels like inside him. It was overwhelming at first, and even now Brandon sometimes wants to put a hand over his mouth and hold him down, but right now, buzzed off a win and feeling Andy struggling just a little underneath him, he’s content to listen to Andy talking about how much he loves Brandon’s hands on him, wants more, Brandon, _please_.

Brandon bites at the hinge of Andy’s jaw, rubs his beard on the soft skin on Andy’s throat, and thumbs at the head of his dick, forcing a high pitched keen out of him.

Andy’s on a hair trigger, has been for a while, and when Brandon grips a little harder and strokes at the same time as he bites Andy and sucks a bruises onto the hard line of his jaw, just under the ear, Andy moans and comes in his underwear, shaking against the wall.

Brandon keeps moving his hand through it, until Andy’s whimpering and pushing at his hand weakly, head thrown back against the wall.

Brandon kisses him, and draws his hand out, wiping it on Andy’s undershirt.

Andy pulls a face that twists into something needier when Brandon moves his arm away. ’ _No_ ,’ he says, sudden. Brandon pauses. 'I mean,’ Andy continues, opening his eyes. 'Uh. I’ll fall over if you let go of me. I don’t think my legs work right now.’

Brandon laughs, delighted. 'Did I break you, mutt?’

Andy shoves at him. 'Shut up.’

Brandon kisses him again, lighter, more teasing. 'If you remember how to walk, we can go into the bedroom for real this time and I’ll fuck you until you pass out.’ he offers. Andy grins, and nods, and he’s a little wobbly when Brandon lets him go, but he makes it to the bed under his own steam, kicking his pants and underwear off along the way before sprawling out on the bed on his belly, legs spread wide enough that Brandon can see a hint of the darker skin between his thighs.

He turns and looks over his shoulder at Brandon, standing in the doorway. 'You coming, or what?’ he asks with a smirk, and spreads his legs, just a little bit wider, bending one of his knees slightly.

Brandon grins, and goes to him.

 


	44. Paulie/Nealer, "distracting the other when they're busy"

‘Paulieeeeeeee.’

'I’m busy, James.’ Paul turns another page of his book.

'But Pauuuuuulieeeee,’ James says, sitting upside in the armchair, legs in the air.

'Adding more syllables to my name won’t make me put the book down.’ Paul hasn’t yet looked up from his book. He just wants to finish another chapter. Just one more.

There’s a rustle, and a weight drops onto the sofa next to him. James nudges his nose into the hollow behind Paul’s ear, kissing at the skin there. 

Paul elbows him in the chest, and keeps reading.

James retreats with a mournful noise. Out of the corner of Paul’s eye he sees him rubbing at his sternum.

He gets up off the sofa and vanishes where Paul can’t see him. He sinks into a sofa a little more, and turns a page.

Something cold touches the back of Paul’s neck, and he leaps about a foot in the air. The book clatters to the ground, his place lost.

'What in the actual fuck, Nealer?’ Paul asks, spinning around to look at him.

'I… guess I have cold hands,’ James says, grinning. 'Help me warm them up.’

'No,’ Paul says, shortly, and sits back down again, leafing through his book.

'Come on, Paulie,’ James says, sliding back onto the sofa, almost in Paul’s lap, like he’s trying to get between Paul and his book. 'The book’s boring. I’ll suck your dick?’

’ _No_.’

James whines. Paul turns another page.

James plants his hands on Paul’s hips, over his jeans, and starts kissing up his neck. Paul shifts so he can hold his book in one hand and gets the other one tangled in James’s hair. He feels him smiling as he bites gently at Paul’s throat just before he tugs him away.

'No,’ Paul says to his face, inches away, before letting go. James stays where he is for a second. Paul turns back to his book for about four seconds before James kisses him square on the lips, licking his way inside. He tastes like coffee and caramel, and Paul sighs happily into his mouth for a second.

James gets one good kiss before Paul pulls away, kisses him again quickly.

'Please let me finish my chapter,’ Paul says, and smacks at James’ hand when it starts sneaking towards the waistband of Paul’s pants.

James pouts. 'Why aren’t you any fun?’

Paul looks at him over the top of his glasses. 'You sound a lot like someone who doesn’t want to have sex ever again.’

James looks so horrified Paul almost feels like a bad person. Almost.

He flips through his book quickly. 'I have seven pages left of this chapter. If you behave for the next seven pages, I’ll suck  _your_  dick. How’s that?’

James thinks about it. 'Will you take your shirt off so I can ogle you while you read?’

Paul rolls his eyes, but strips his shirt off and dumps over the arm of the couch. James grins, and rubs his thumb over Paul’s nipples gently.

'Seven pages,’ Paul warns him.

James leans down and kisses his collarbone. 'I’m being quiet,’ he says.

Paul scowls, but James does let him finish his chapter. He kisses him senseless even before he’s done putting the book on the couch next to him, curling both his hands in Paul’s too long hair and grinding down with a smirk.

'You’re lucky I love you,’ Paul says, as James is sliding his hand into his pants, and then neither of them say much of anything.


	45. Hartnell/Johansen, things you said at 1am/things you said I wish you hadn't

Scott gets woken up by a knock on his door. A crash, really. He pulls on sweats and flips on the light, bleary eyed, and stumbles to the front door.

Ryan tumbles inside, giggling. ‘Scotty!’ he says. Scott’s gut twists.

Ryan’s wearing tight jeans and a tighter shirt, a thin blue henley that’s almost see-through and smells like perfume. There’s a bite mark on his collarbone, and a smear of lipstick on his cheekbone, where he’s rubbed away the kiss.

‘Hey, Joey,’ he says, and lets him in.

'It didn’t work,’ Ryan tells him, leaning into him. He’s sticky with sweat and beer. He looks so sad all of a sudden, mouth turning down, good mood evaporating. Scott gets an arm around his waist and sits him on the sofa, gets a bottle of water from the fridge and cracks the lid for him. 

'I just gotta keep trying, right?’ Ryan says, after sipping at his water, spilling some of it down his shirt. Scott sits on the other end of the couch, brings his feet up underneath him.

'You can’t fuck the gay out of you, kid,’ he says.

Ryan looks down at his water, and doesn’t say anything. He gets the rest of the bottle down and slumps back into the sofa. ‘Tired,’ he mumbles.

'Come on, Joey. Bed,’ Scott says, and gets an arm underneath him, hauls him up carefully.

Ryan kisses him, sloppy and sticky and offcentre. Scott pulls away immediately, and Ryan chases his lips with a sad sound. ‘No,’ Scott says. ‘I’m not doing this with you.’

'Come on, Scotty,’ Ryan says, looking at him through his eyelashes. 'Fuck me. I know you want to. I want you to.’

Scott closes his eyes for a second. ‘I can’t.’

'Why  _not?_ ’ Ryan demands. His words are starting to slur.

'Because you’re drunk and closeted and I’m not talking advantage of you like this.’

'But I want you to take advantage of me,’ Ryan says. They’re in Scott’s bedroom now, and he lowers him to the bed. Ryan has an arm around his neck, and pulls him down too, so they end up curled around each other.

'I don’t fuck anyone who doesn’t want me sober,’ Scott says, as gently as he can. Ryan’s face falls. He pushes his nose into the hollow of Scott’s throat and holds him closer. 

'I want you all the time,’ Ryan says, voice cracking. 'I’m just— this is the only time I can ask.’

Scott kisses the top of his head, strokes a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

'Go to sleep, Joey,’ he says, and flips the light off, but he stays there, Ryan curved into his chest, hand hooked around Scott’s bare hip.

Scott lies awake for a long time. He doesn’t know how many more times he can have the same conversation.

-

‘I’m sorry,’ Ryan says, coming into the kitchen in bare feet. He’s wearing Scott’s sweats, which ride low on his hips, and a t-shirt he must have left here at some point.

Scott’s emptying the dishwasher, stacking plates carefully. ‘You’re always sorry,’ he says, flat.

'Because I am,’ Ryan says. He still feels a little drunk, and there’s a bite mark on his chest that aches when he rubs it.

'It’s not good enough, Joey.’ Scott says. He still hasn’t looked up from the stacks of dishes.

'I don’t know what else to say,’ he says. He sits at the kitchen island and wraps his arms around himself.

Scott slams a tumbler on the kitchen counter and turns over. ‘You can’t keep coming here when you kick your latest fuck out. I can’t do this anymore,’ he says, gesturing between the two of them. ‘Fuck, Joey, you still smell like her, you know?’

'I thought we were friends,’ Ryan says, slowly. 'You’re the only one who knows— what’s wrong with me.’

Scott closes his eyes, sets his shoulders like he’s absorbing a big hit. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ he says, slowly, evenly, tightly. 

Ryan says nothing. Then, ‘Do you hate me?’ He doesn’t mean to say it, but it’s what happens. Scott opens his eyes.

'No, kid. I don’t hate you.’

Ryan opens his mouth, surprised. ‘But why not?’

Scott takes a deep breath. ‘Because I’m in love with you,’ he says eventually, and Ryan feels his gut twist with guilt.

'But you’re not supposed to be in love with me,’ Ryan says, a little hysterically.

'And you’re not supposed to be a sad, drunken mess who comes to be after he’s fucked someone else, and yet here we are.’

Ryan flinches away from the words. ‘I don’t want you to be in love with me,’ he says, knee jerk reaction, and Scott looks like Ryan’s just kicked him in the chest.

'You need to leave,’ Scott says. 'Get out.’

Ryan opens his mouth to apologise. 

'I don’t want to be in love with you, either,’ Scott says, cold. 'Figure your shit out, Ryan, because you can’t keep coming back here every night.’

Ryan closes his mouth, and leaves.


	46. Saad/Seabrook, phone sex

Brandon’s been at his parent’s house for five days before he hears from Brent.

He’s almost given up, if he’s being honest with himself. Brent had graduated this past spring, was looking for a post grad job. Translation: a job not in Chicago. A job not where Brandon can see him.

Brandon’s pretty much talked himself into them breaking up when his phone rings. He’s home alone, parents still at work, draped across his bed like he’s got nothing better to do, which, accurate, he guesses.

‘Hey,’ he says easily, not bothering to check the call ID.

'Hey sweetheart,’ Brent says, low and warm, and Brandon smiles without meaning to.

He rolls onto his side, tucks the phone between the pillow and his ear. ‘Hey,’ he says again.

'How’s Pittsburgh?’ Brent asks. He sounds good, Brandon realises. Happy. When Brandon had left for the summer, the job hunt had been taking a toll on him. He’d been stressed, tired, and starting to get desperate.

'Disgustingly hot,’ Brandon says. 'I haven’t put a shirt or real pants on in like three days.’

Brent hums at that. ‘I’m sorry I’m missing it.’ There’s a curl of something in his voice. Brandon recognises it as the tone that comes through when Brent wakes up in the morning, presses his hips into Brandon lazily before curving a hand around his dick and jerking him awake. It’s one of Brandon’s favourite things about Brent.

'Yeah?’ Brandon says, rolling again so he’s on his back. He palms his dick softly, through the thin material of his shorts.

'Yep, Brent says. Brandon can hear the rustle of fabric. 'I could think of a few things we could do to avoid the heat.' 

Brandon’s already tacky with sweat when he slides his hand into his shorts and wraps his fingers around the base of his dick.

'You know how cool it gets in my apartment,’ Brent says. 'Especially in the bedroom.’

Brandon does remember. There was a mini heatwave in April, and they hadn’t left the apartment for three days, blasting the AC and wandering around naked trying to stay cool.

'I miss that apartment,’ Brandon says.

'I miss you,’ Brent says, suddenly, and Brandon’s breath catches a little. He hasn’t really moved his hand, but he tightens his grip, just the tiniest bit.

'Brent,’ he says, quiet, needy. He’s almost all the way hard, tenting his shorts.

'You touching yourself, sweetheart?’ Brent says, and his voice is even lower, real gentle and soft. 'You got your hand on your dick for me already?’ He sounds almost teasing, and Brandon can imagine the tiny smile on his face.

'Wish it was you,’ Brandon says, and jacks his dick once, twice, until he’s all the way hard, and there’s a wet spot starting to come through on his shorts. He kicks them off and plants his feet on the bed, knees bent, thighs apart, hand still on his dick.

'I’d make you feel so good,’ Brent agrees. 'You’re gonna have to be good for me this time though, babe.’

Brandon makes a soft sound, and twists his wrist.

'Yeah, that’s good, sweetheart,’ Brent says.  'Do that again.’

For a few moments, all Brandon can hear is the wet sound of his hand moving, and Brent’s carefully even breaths.

'Bet you look so good,’ Brent says. 'Bet you’ve gone bright red, like you always do when I touch you.’

Brandon’s breaths are getting faster, but he’s fighting to keep his hand steady, even. The hand holding his phone is shaking, just a little.

'Are you— too?’ he asks. His voice is wobbling, just barely. He hears Brent chuckle softly.

'Yeah, babe, I am. Not as good as when you’re here, though.’

'Fuckin'— I miss you so much, Brent,’ Brandon says.

'I’ll see you soon,’ Brent says. 'Promise. You close?’

Brandon’s been close for a while. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, close.’

'Go on, sweetheart,’ Brent says. 'Let me hear you.’

Neither of them are particularly loud in bed naturally, but Brandon takes advantage of being home alone to play it up a little, lets his breaths get a little louder, a little more forceful, and when he comes, he makes a choked off moan, throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut as he comes on his belly. 

He hears Brent come too, makes a quiet, soft sound, and the distant sound of skin slapping against skin suddenly stops. They both lie there in silence and breathe for a few minutes.

'I took the Chicago job,’ Brent says. Brandon stops breathing.

'What?’

'The job at Northwestern. I’m staying in Chicago.’

'I thought… you wanted somewhere new,’ Brandon says, quietly. He still can’t really believe it.

'Eh,’ Brent says. Brandon can hear the shrug. 'I want you. Wherever you are is good enough for me.’


	47. Saad/Seabrook, shaving kink

‘Babe, you’re so  _scratchy_.’ Brandon mumbles, kissing his way along Brent’s jaw, trailing down his throat.

Brent laughs. 'I thought you liked the beard.’

Brandon does like the beard. He likes it most when it’s just barely there, though, and Brent presses tiny, gentle kisses all the way down his sternum, over his belly, along the curve of his ribcage and the ridge of his hips, drags his lips all the way down the knobs of Brandon’s spine just to watch the blush spring up.

'You’re  _so_  scratchy _,’_ he repeats.

It’s possible Brandon might have had one more beer than necessary.

Brent kisses him, tries to take this further, but Brandon keeps squirming away from him, won’t even let Brent blow him. Brent ends up pressing him into the mattress, jerking him off roughly. Brandon always ends up passing out after an orgasm or two, especially if he’s been drinking.

Brandon wakes up to beard burn on his jaw and a mild case of cotton mouth.

He rolls over and finds Brent reading silently, glasses balanced on his nose. 'You need to shave,’ he says, voice rough with sleep.

Brent looks at him over the top of his glasses. “Do I now?’ he asks, smirking.

Brandon nods, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with the heels of his hands.

'If you don’t shave, I’ll do it for you,’ he threatens. Brent’s smirk gets bigger.

'Is that so?’

-

Brent ends up sitting on the closed toilet seat, bare chested, while Brandon smears the shaving cream on the lower half of his face and throat.

'Hold still,’ Brandon says. 'Why do you even have this thing? You know razors have advanced to the twenty first century with us, right?’ He holds up Brent’s cutthroat razor, fixing Brent with an unimpressed look.

Brent shrugs. 'I like it.’

Brandon rolls his eyes and gets a hand in the hair at the base of Brent’s skull, tugging until his chin is pointed up.

Brent closes his eyes at the first scrape of metal down his cheek. Brandon works in silence, swishing the blade through warm water and wiping it off on the towel around Brent’s neck.

The hinge of his jaw makes Brandon nervous, and his hands are shaking, just a little bit. Brent opens his eyes and just looks at Brandon gently. 'It’s okay,’ he says, quiet. 'I trust you.’

Brandon bites his lower lip nervous, and swipes the razor through the foam. Slowly, slowly, Brent’s face emerges out of the lather.

'Hey,’ Brandon says, when he puts the razor down at the end. He wets a washcloth and wipes the last of the foam away, before pouring a little of the moisturiser Brent uses into his palm. He smooths it over the skin carefully in small circles, fingertips lingering on the edges of his jaw, the pulse point of his throat.

He works the cream in longer than he really needs to. Brent has his eyes closed again, looks content to let Brandon do it all day. He finally drops his hands.

Brent stands up looks in the mirror, tilts his head from side to side. 'Nice job, babe,’ he says, reaching out and reeling Brandon in for a kiss. He tastes like shaving foam. Brandon pulls a face.

'Now,’ Brent says, dropping his voice, curling his hands around Brandon’s hips, dipping one into the waistband of his underwear. 'I believe I owe you a non-scratchy blowjob?’


	48. Bobrovsky/Foligno, things you said when we were on top of the world

Bob kisses him when they make the playoffs. Throws his helmet off and plants a sloppy-wet kiss on Nick’s cheek, wraps him into a thick, padded hug. Nick hugs him right back, lifts him clear off his feet and spins in a circle.

The rest of the team hangs back until Nick lets him go, peels himself away from Bob and gets mobbed by the crush of teammates immediately. 

He can’t stop smiling.

They celebrate in the locker room for a long time. Nick’s shirt is soaked with beer by the time they get kicked out by Richards.

Bob follows him home. Nick’s still smiling when he gets out of the car, and they head up to his apartment together.

Bob grabs Nick around the waist as he’s sliding his key into the lock, murmuring Russian into Nick’s ear. He understands maybe one word in ten, but he picks out ‘love’ and ‘fuck’, and as soon as the door’s open he pulls Bob in, turns him around and kisses him up against the wall in his entry way.

‘This win was all you,’ he says into Bob’s throat. 'Every single save.’

'Was team effort,’ Bob says, fumbling for the hem of Nick’s shirt. His hands are cold on Nick’s skin.

'No,’ Nick says. 'This season is all you, love.’

'But—’ Bob starts, and Nick kisses him again, hooking his fingers through Bob’s belt loops and pulling him in.

Bob pushes into the kiss, framing Nick’s jaw with his hands, and then Nick pulls away, drops to his knees.

Bob looks down at him like he’s in love. He traces Nick’s lower lip with his thumb. ‘You don’t have to,’ he says.

'I want to,’ Nick says, nipping at the tip of Bob’s thumb.

Bob babbles in Russian the whole way through, fingers sprawled across his skull, cradling it before he comes down Nick’s throat.

'What were you saying?’ Nick asks afterwards, voice rough. They’re on his couch, tangled together. Bob’s kissing up and down his jaw, worryingly lightly at the skin below his ear.

'Just stuff,’ Bob says. He turns a little pink. Nick props himself up on his elbows and looks at him.

'What kind of stuff?’ he asks, gentle.

'That your mouth felt so good on me,’ Bob starts. Nick kisses his collarbone softly. 'That I don’t know what I did to get you as a teammate and a boyfriend. That I love you. That I never want to be anywhere you aren’t.’ He says it slowly, halting, like he can’t think of the right words in English.

'Oh,’ Nick says. He’s not sure what else to say. Bob ducks his head, even pinker. 'Hey,’ Nick says. He nudges at Bob’s chin until he’s looking at him again, and kisses him on the lips.  'I love you,’ he says, firmly. 'There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.’ He grins. 'Now let’s go win some playoff games.’


	49. Saad/Toews, kneeling

Saader’s quiet, when he kneels.

Jonny doesn’t really know what he was expecting; kid’s quiet everywhere else, but when he’s on his knees he’s almost silent, like he’s holding his breath.

Jonny figured he’d just talk more, to fill the empty spaces where conversation should go. Seabs used to talk for hours, when Jonny was kneeling, just a constant stream of anything that was on his mind, and Jonny knows that Kaner was never quiet when Sharpy had him on his knees. He’s seen Shawsy in the locker room, talking up a storm, and Duncs just sitting back, possessive hand on the back of his neck, tightening whenever Shawsy gets too loud and annoying.

It feels wrong to talk, though. Jonny talks about the game, the first time. About all the things that had gone well. All the things that hadn’t.

Saader’s shoulders had been a long line of tension when he finally stopped talking, and his head was bowed. His fingers were wrapped around Jonny’s bare ankle like he’ll drift away otherwise. As soon as Jonny stops talking, Saader’s grip loosens.He starts breathing again.

Jonny gets real used to the sound of the clock in his living room, when they do this.

-

Saader keeps kneeling. He comes out of his shell inch by inch in the locker room, on the ice. Chirps just as much as the rest of them. He and Shawsy wrestle on the ice at Johnny’s.

He’s still as silent as the grave as soon as his knees hit Jonny’s carpet.

-

After the game in Detroit, Jonny can’t.

Saader comes to him, eyes wide, needy, but Jonny. Can’t.

Saader’s face falls. ‘Oh,’ he says. Jonny always forgets how softly spoken he is.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jonny says, but he’s already gone.

(Jonny goes home with Seabs. He guesses maybe you don’t grow out of needing that.)

-

Saader kneels the day after.

Jonny apologises again.

‘Were you scared?’ Saader asks, from his knees. Jonny’s so surprised, he doesn’t answer straight away. Saader keeps his eyes fixed on Jonny’s feet.

‘Of what?’ he says, eventually.

Saader breathes for a second before he answers. ‘Kneeling.’

‘No,’ Jonny says automatically. He’s surprised that it’s true. ‘Are you?’

‘I was,’ Saader says. ‘I didn’t— I thought I wouldn’t like it. I thought— I didn’t know it was going to be like this.’

‘Are you still scared?’ Jonny asks.

Saader doesn’t answer.

‘Do you trust me?’ Jonny asks.

Saader stands up. ‘I think I need to leave,’ he says. He still hasn’t looked up, gaze still fixed on the floor. He’s out the door before Jonny can say anything else.

-

He doesn’t come to Jonny again.

-

Jonny fucks him, when they win the Stanley Cup.

Saader’s loose and happy with alcohol, and Jonny kisses him in the locker room to catcalls. It’s mostly a joke, but he pulls away and sees the look in Saader’s eyes, and nods.

He takes him back to his apartment and takes him apart over the sheets.

Saader kneels, afterwards. Climbs off the bed, where Jonny was drawing patterns on his skin with the tip of a finger, and drops to his knees.

‘I want to,’ he says, when Jonny protests.

‘Are you still scared?’ Jonny asks, when Saader’s head is pillowed on the outside of his thigh, when his hand is stroking up and down the back of Jonny’s calf, over the rough line of scar tissue there.

‘No,’ Saader says. ‘I trust you.’


	50. Giroux/Simmonds, things you said when you were drunk

‘Waaaaaaayne,’ Claude says, lying on his back on Wayne’s living room floor.

Wayne looks at him. ‘What, G?’

‘Why don’t you like me when I’m drunk?’ Claude rolls over onto his front, props himself up on his elbows, chin resting in his hands.

Wayne laughs. ‘Do you really need an answer to that?’

Claude pouts. ‘But I love you a lot?’ It comes out like a question. Wayne stops laughing.

‘Okay, buddy. Time to get you into bed.’

Claude grins. 

‘Your own bed,’ Wayne clarifies, and Claude’s face falls again. Wayne gets an arm around Claude’s waist and hauls him up. He’s more than a little drunk himself, and he can only imagine what they look like, wobbling down the hall to his spare room.

Claude collapses on the bed as soon as Wayne lets him go, and he starfishes on his back, hands and feet hanging off the edges. ‘You gonna take your shoes off, buddy?’ Wayne asks him. Claude giggles.

Wayne sighs, and sits on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the knots on Claude’s shoes. He slips one off, then the other, and takes his socks, too. ‘You’re gonna crease your shirt if you sleep in it,’ he says. Claude fumbles one button open, and gives up.

‘Worth it,’ he says, already half asleep. Wayne rolls his eyes and undoes the rest of the buttons, coaxing Claude into a sitting up position and peeling it off him.

‘You should stay,’ Claude says, flopping back down onto the bed. Somehow, he got a hand clamped around Wayne’s wrist. Drunk strength. Wayne’s least favourite Claude.

He figures he’ll just stay, perched on the edge of the bed, until Claude passes out and starts drooling, but Claude pulls him in until Wayne’s sprawled over the top of him.

‘Hi,’ Claude says, nonsensically.

‘Hey, buddy,’ Wayne says, and shifts until Claude’s hipbone isn’t digging into his stomach.

‘I really love you,’ Claude informs him. ‘Like, so much.’

‘I know, G. Love you too,’ Wayne says. Claude shakes his head, furiously.

‘You  _don’t_  know, though,’ Claude says insistently. He kisses Wayne, sloppy, and offcenter, and worryingly sticky, and  _oh_.

‘Oh,’ Wayne says, into the kiss. Claude takes this as permission to try and stick his tongue in Wayne’s mouth.

It’s probably the worst kiss Wayne’s ever had. Ever. He gets a hand on Claude’s chest and pushes, pulls away from it surprisingly easy.

‘See?’ Claude says, mournfully. ‘You don’t love me back.’

Wayne… doesn’t know what to say to that.

‘I’m gonna go to sleep now,’ Claude says, and wraps his arms around Wayne’s waist, buries his face in Wayne’s collarbone.

Wayne lies there for a long time, Claude snoring in his ear. Eventually, he figures he might as well sleep. They’re going to have to talk about it in the morning, and he’s not looking forward to the accompanying hangover.


	51. Domi/Duclair, college AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prequel to chapter 35

Max knows he should be paying attention in Calc. He knows, okay. Blah blah C average to keep his scholarship slash be able to actually play lacrosse slash prevent the wrath of his father from coming down on him. He _knows_  he has to at least try and pass this class.

It’s just. There’s a really hot guy that sits just in front of him, who has terrible handwriting and reads on his kindle all through class and  _still_  gets an A anyway.

(Max tries copying his notes over his shoulder. It does not work.)

He’s  _really_ hot though. Max is a fan.

Hot Guy turns up exactly on time every week, and leaves as soon as class is over.

Max thinks his name is Andy. Or Andrew. Something beginning with A, anyway.

Mostly he thinks about how he wants to hook up with him.

Only then the CIS championships start, and he kind of gets preoccupied with kicking all kinds of ass on the lacrosse field, and by the time he’s ready to like, focus on something that isn’t ball-in-net, it’s the end of the semester, all his classes have switched, and Hot Guy isn’t in his French class, or his American History requirement, or his Human Bio lecture.

‘It’s a fucking tragedy,’ he says to Jord one day, when they’re on the way out of the locker room.

‘Yep,’ Jord says, clearly not listening.

‘It  _is_ ,’ Max insists, punching him in the shoulder.

‘Maybe you’ll have to find another dude to bang once and never call,’ Jord says, and ducks out of Max’s range. Max throws a tennis ball at him anyway.

-

Max doesn’t even see Hot Guy around on campus. He starts giving serious thought to the theory that he might have actually made him up, until he sees him at some dumb frat party that he’s only at because Jord dragged him.

He’s just leaving, and Max is caught by the kitchen door, and by the time he’s fought his way through the drunken masses, Hot Guy’s vanished. Max sighs, and lets himself get folded into the game of spin the bottle on the porch. He ends up getting to make out with a girl with a tongue piercing, so. It’s not all bad, he guesses.

-

In February, he learns that Hot Guy’s name is Anthony, because he’s a detective genius.

(He sees him across the quad and asks Bo if he knows him. Bo thinks his name is Anthony Duclair and that he sometimes sells weed to Bo’s buddy Hunter.

‘Anthony.’ Max rolls the name over his tongue and grins.

Bo rolls his eyes, and steals Max’s can of 7-Up.

-

Max is on the way home from a staggeringly unimpressive hook-up when he sees Anthony heading into the library, bookbag over his shoulders.  He’s got a thermos of something.

Max pauses.

Makes a split second decision, and runs to catch the door just before it slides shut behind Anthony.


	52. Saad/Toews/Seabrook, kneeling

Brandon’s not a rookie anymore. He isn’t required by the team to kneel.

There’s a ceremonial kneeling at the season opener, he and Andy kneel in the locker room, just for a couple of minutes, just to calm them down, and then they’re done. Brandon gets up and feels like a hockey player. It’s fine. It’s  _good_.

Three weeks into the season, he needs it.

It was an absolute shitshow of a game, everyone’s mad when they get off the ice. Raanta doesn’t even take his pads off before he drops down, forehead pressed to Crow’s thigh.

Jonny’s spitting mad, stalking into the locker room with a bloody nose from a missed high stick. 

Brandon feels a little bit distant. He has to fight the urge to drop to his knees right there. He swallows half a bottle of water to try and get the nausea to pass.

He goes straight to Jonny’s hotel room from the bus, stopping at his own for thirty seconds to change out of his suit. He knocks, and doesn’t bother waiting for an answer.

Jonny’s on his knees in the middle of the room, Seabs sitting at the edge of the bed. They both look up when he enters, stands there frozen in the doorway. He feels his cheeks heat. “I’m sorry,’ he says. “I’ll— I can— I should leave.’

Jonny opens his mouth, but it’s Seabs who tells him to stay.

It’s Seabs who shifts so there’s a gap between the edge of the bed and the foot that Jonny doesn’t have a hand wrapped around.

Brandon hesitates. ‘Really, I can—’ 

‘Rookie,’ Seabs says. ‘Kneel.’

‘But I don’t—’

‘Yeah, you do,’ Seabs says, firm. It’s not mean. Brandon hesitates anyway.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I do.’ Seabs pats his knee, and shifts his foot across again. It’s very far away from Jonny, stuck on the other side of Seabs. Brandon takes a breath, and drops down in the vee of Seabs’ legs. He hears Seabs breathe in sharply.

He didn’t realise now much he needed it until he’s down. He wraps his hand around the one of Jonny’s that’s holding Seabs’ ankle carefully.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. Jonny looks at him, apologetic. ‘This is supposed to be your time.’

‘Saader, you looked about a second and a half away from falling apart when you opened that door,’ Seabs says, dropping a heavy hand into his hair. His fingernails scrape at Brandon’s scalp soothingly.

‘I don’t mind,’ Jonny says, quiet. Tangles his fingers with Brandon’s. It’s. Nice, Brandon realises. Calming.

Seabs is smoothing down his damp hair with long calming strokes. It’s not quite like kneeling for Jonny. Seabs is murmuring nonsense at both of them. Jonny’s cheek is resting on the outside of Seabs’ knee, thumb running across Brandon’s hand gently.

Brandon breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

-

‘Hey, rookie.’ Brandon opens his eyes. One of his feet is asleep. Seabs is smiling down at him uncertainly. ‘You okay, Saader?’

He realises suddenly that Jonny’s not next to him. Seabs sees him looking, shifts to one side so he can see Jonny stretched out on the other bed, back to the room.

‘How long did I sleep for?’ Brandon asks. His voice sounds hoarse, so it must have been a while.

Seabs shrugs. ‘An hour and a half, maybe? You looked like you needed it, I didn’t want to disturb you.’ His hand is cradling the base of Brandon’s skull. ‘You gonna get up?’

‘I don’t think I can,’ Brandon admits. ‘My foot’s asleep.’ He yawns his way through the last word. He can feel the exhaustion deep in his bones. Seabs laughs quietly.

‘Okay, kid. Up you get.’ He tucks his hands into Brandon’s armpits and lifts him gently, wrapping an arm around his waist as soon as he’s upright before bending over and scooping him up in a bridal carry.

‘Um,’ Brandon says, cheeks heating.

‘It’s fine, I did the exact same thing to Jonny like a half hour ago.’ He deposits Brandon on the bed next to Jonny, who rolls over towards them immediately, throwing an arm across Brandon’s waist, mashing his face into Brandon’s shoulder. ‘Uh. I normally– stay. When me and Jonny do this.’

‘…Oh,’ Brandon says. He starts shifting on the bed, trying to make some room. His foot is waking up, unpleasant and staticky.

‘It’s okay,’ Seabs says quickly. ‘I can leave. I… should leave.’

Brandon reacts on impulse, reaches out and grabs Seabs’ wrist. ‘Stay.’

Seabs stands there for a long time. Brandon can feel his pulse ticking.

‘Okay,’ he says eventually. He toes off his shoes, tugs his pants off, unbuttons his shirt. Jonny makes a complaining noise when Seabs climbs onto the bed with them, but he relaxes into sleep quickly, grip tightening around Brandon’s middle. Seabs kisses Jonny’s forehead before lying down.

‘Go back to sleep, Manchild,’ he says, flipping the light off. ‘I’ll be here in the morning.’


	53. Saad/Sharp, military AU

Brandon has a blister on his big toe, where his boots are rubbing. It makes him walk with a slight limp. Almost unnoticable. **  
**

Sergeant Sharp notices.

‘New boots?’ he asks, innocently. Brandon pulls a face at them and nods.

'First tour?’ Sharp asks next, smiling softly. Brandon nods again. Sharp’s expression hardens suddenly.

'Try not to get anyone killed,’ he says, and about faces, strides away to where a kid with close cropped dark hair is jamming his hand inside a Humvee engine.

-

Brandon finds out he’s going to Iraq three weeks before he’s due to ship out. He has just enough time to put his belongings into storage and rent his apartment out to a friend.

He calls his father the night before they leave.

'I don’t know what to do, bābā,’ he says.

'You do your job,’ his father says. Brandon is going to miss the rolling lilt of his accent. 'You bring all your men back home.’ There’s a pause. 'You bring yourself back home, Brandon.’

-

Iraq is hot. Brandon already knew that. He thought it might feel a little like Syria, where he spent every summer until he was eighteen, but the air smells like gunpowder and he has to wear a scarf to stop breathing in dust.

The pistol on his hip is heavier than the M16 in the crook of his arm.

Three days in, they find a dead child on the side of the road.

Keith lifts his video camera for a second before lowering it again, flipping the screen shut. Sharp just keeps driving. Eyes fixed on the road.

-

'You don’t belong here,’ Sharp says, harsh and cold.

Brandon flinches. 'Maybe not,’ he says eventually. 'But I’m still your commanding officer, Sergeant. And I gave you an order.’

Sharp gives him a textbook salute. Brandon doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone say 'fuck you’ quite so professionally.

'Yessir,’ Sharp bites out.

'Dismissed, Sergeant,’ Brandon says, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Sharp’s boots crunch in the sand as he walks away.

Brandon’s own boots are scuffed and stained with oil and blood. His blister is long healed, leaving a shiny patch of skin.

-

Three weeks in, Brandon kills his first Iraqi.

He was screaming  _fuck Americans_  in Arabic so loudly his voice was cracking, and he was waving an AK around like a toy. Brandon shot him in the chest twice without even thinking.

Shaw gives him a pop tart MRE with ‘Baby’s First Kill’ written on it in Sharpie. He throws it away, uneaten.

‘You need to eat, Sir,’ Sharp says, appearing in the Humvee window, holding up the MRE.

Brandon says nothing. Sharp drops it in his lap.

‘If you don’t eat, you start getting light-headed, you start losing the ability to make quick and informed decisions. That makes you a danger to yourself and to this platoon. Eat your fucking pop tart, Lieutenant.’

He strides off.

Brandon eats the pop tart.

-

He loses a man in Al Shatra.

-

‘It’s not your fault,’ Sharp says.

Brandon’s just trying to breathe without his chest ripping open. It feels like there’s a KA-BAR in one of his lungs. He feels a hand on the back of his neck, gripping firm. It’s– kind of calming. Grounding. He takes a shuddery breath.

When he’s calm, he keeps his head bowed. He can’t give Sharp the satisfaction of knowing Iraq beat him. He can’t look him in the eye after– that.

‘Look at me, LT,’ Sharp says. He sounds soft. Gentle, even. Brandon looks up, confused, and Sharp’s looking at him, all concerned eyes, downturned mouth. ‘You didn’t lose him,’ he says.

‘I gave the order,’ Brandon says miserably.

‘And where did you get the order?’ Sharp asks, shakes Brandon’s neck when he doesn’t answer. ‘Answer the question, Saad.’

‘Major Quenneville,’ he says, quietly.

‘Shit rolls downhill faster in the desert than anywhere else,’ Sharp says. ‘And it picks up a hell of a lot of sand on the way. You can’t let it get to you.’

‘But–’

‘Lieutenant Saad, you still have twenty one men and the Corpsman to get home safe. What are you going to do? Sit in your Victor and cry, or get out there and lead your men?’

Brandon opens his mouth.

‘What are you going to do, Brandon?’

Brandon startles at the sound of his name.

‘Bring them home,’ he says, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice.

‘Damn fucking right you are. Now get out of the fucking Humvee.’

When Brandon has both feet in the sand, he turns to thank Sharp but he’s already vanishing into the dusk.

-

Brandon has a scar on his belly from when he was a kid. It’s from climbing a tree and cutting himself on a broken branch.

Sharp has a scar in the same place, a tiny white starburst. It’s from being shot in the gut.

Brandon notices it one morning, and can’t stop noticing every morning after that.

-

Brandon realises he’s in love with Sharp the same night mortars drop on Baghdad.

-

Brandon brings twenty one men home.

It’s not good enough.

He meets his father at the airport and cries into the crook of his neck.

‘Sharaftena,’ his father says into his temple. ‘You’re okay, Brandon.’

Brandon doesn’t believe him.

-

He dreams of sand and blood. Wakes up soaked in sweat.

He writes a book, those nights he can’t sleep. Writes down everything he remembers from being over there. He sends it to his brother when he’s finished.

George sends it to a friend of his who works at a publishing company.

Brandon gets an advance and a mock-up of a cover.

-

Brandon gets woken up by a knock on the door.

‘Sergeant?’ Sharp is standing in front of him, looking thin, tired, tan. There’s a gash high on his left cheekbone.

‘I’m not in your book,’ Sharp says.

‘Come in,’ Brandon says.

Sharp looks lost on Brandon’s couch.

‘I’m not in your book,’ he says again.

‘You’re not,’ Brandon agrees.

‘Why  _not_?’

Brandon opens his mouth, closes it again.

‘I didn’t know how to write about you,’ he says eventually.

Sharp looks at him. Brandon doesn’t know what his expression means.

‘LT–’ he starts.

‘Brandon. I’m– not a Marine anymore.’ Brandon says firmly.

‘No such thing as an ex-Marine,’ Sharp says, immediately. ‘Why didn’t you know how to write about me?’

Brandon thinks about it.

‘L– Brandon,’ Sharp starts.

‘Because everything I wrote sounded like a goddamn romance novel,’ Brandon spits, suddenly, surprises himself.

Sharp licks his lips. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I thought that might be it.’

‘What–’ Brandon says, but Sharp’s up off the couch, is practically nose to nose with him. His eyes are almost closed. Brandon has the sudden, irrational thought that Sharp’s gonna punch him. ‘Ser–’

‘Patrick,’ he says, almost whispers. ‘Call me Patrick.’

Brandon doesn’t know who kisses who first, but it’s him that tumbles onto the couch first, Patrick sprawling in his lap and sucking at his lower lip like it’s all he can think about.

They fuck on the couch, and in Brandon’s bed, fall asleep holding hands.

-

Patrick’s gone when Brandon wakes up.

He didn’t have a nightmare for the first time in a year, but he wakes up to an empty bed. An empty apartment.

A copy of his book is on the coffee table with a post-it note on the cover. It’s a phone number, some flight info, and a scrawled note.

_I’ll see you when I get back._


	54. PK/Pricey, grinding

They go to the club when they win. It’s what they  _do_ , in Hamilton. PK’s not in Hamilton anymore, but he’s pretty sure that NHL players party after a win. It’s like, in the CBA, or something.

‘Nah, I don’t really feel like it tonight,’ Pricey says, twisting so he can unbuckle his pads.

‘Dude,’ PK says. Maybe a little too loud, since everyone in the locker room turns to look at him. ‘First shutout of the season! That gets cocktails! And strippers!’

‘I don’t like cocktails. Or strippers,’ Pricey says, calmly, twists further to undo another buckle. PK is continually impressed by goalie flexibility.

‘Goalies are weird,’ PK announces. ‘I’m not gonna let you get sucked in. We’re going  _clubbing_.’

Pricey scowls.

-

They do in fact go clubbing. PK is a debating genius and should probably run for like, mayor, or something.

Pricey stands in the corner and scowls. He’s still nursing the same beer. PK is three Slippery Nipples in, and has a pink something or other in a fancy bubbly glass.

‘Pricey! Pricer!’ he starts, bouncing over. ‘Gonna start calling you Cash Money. Because that’s what you are! Money. In. The. Bank!’ He pokes Pricey in the chest firmly. Pricey eyes PK’s drink, wary. 

‘What’s in that?’ he asks.

PK shrugs, and takes a gulp. ‘Pink stuff. And cura—curak— the blue stuff. Try some! It tastes like cherries!’

Pricey looks at it again. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Come onnnnn,’ PK says, shoving it at him. Pricey backs against the wall to avoid some spillage. He takes the glass away from PK, looks around for somewhere to put it. He ends up setting it on the bar.

‘I’m cutting you off,’ he says, waving the bartender over. PK pouts, but accepts the bottle of water. The bartender’s kind of hot, and PK leans over to start up a conversation, but Pricey interrupts him.

‘Nope,’ he says. ‘No hitting on the bartender, you know you’ll end up all over the internet tomorrow if you do.’

‘You’re no fun,’ PK says, and cracks the lid of his water.

The music changes, and PK grins. ‘I  _love_  this song! Come and dance, Pricer!’

Pricey gets halfway through the word ‘no’ before PK grabs him and drags him to the dance floor. PK grabs him by the hips and starts swaying. Pricey looks… well, kind of terrified, actually.

‘You gotta loosen up!’ PK yells, over the music. ‘Put your arms around my neck!’

Pricey looks at him like PK’s just asked him to murder his grandmother, so PK reaches up and does it for him. Pricey is suddenly very close. PK beams at him, and starts swaying again. Slowly, slowly, Pricey unwinds. The second a smile starts tugging at one corner of his mouth, PK laughs.

‘I fucking knew you were enjoying it! I knew you were human after all!’ The grin gets wiped off immediately, but PK knows. He  _knows_.

The song changes again, to something a little slower, a little dirtier. PK smirks. He drops his hands from Pricey’s hips and turns around, backing into him until his ass is pushing against Pricey’s hips.

‘Um,’ Pricey says. He stops moving completely, lets his arms drop off PK’s shoulders.

‘Come on,’ PK says. ‘You’re terrible at this. Haven’t you even bumped and ground before?’

‘No,’ Pricey says, flat, unimpressed.

‘You’re hopeless,’ PK says. Shoves his ass into Pricey’s hips again and starts moving. Pricey’s hands flail a little bit before settling on PK’s hips. ‘There you go,’ he says, encouragingly. PK reaches back and curls his own hand around one of Pricey’s hips, and pushes gently. ‘Now you just gotta move with– there you go, you’re getting it.’ He starts singing along to the music. He can  _hear_  Pricey rolls his eyes, but he keeps moving, right up until the end of the song.  

‘Can I go back to my corner now?’ Pricey asks. PK can hear the grin in his voice.

‘Go on,’ PK says, magnanimously. ‘Go back to hiding. If Kesha comes on though…’ He pokes Pricey in the chest. ‘I’m hunting you down.’

Pricey looks appropriately worried. PK grins, grabs his collar and plants a sloppy-wet kiss on his cheek. Pricey goes an interesting shade of pink. PK makes a mental note to remember that, before turning and grabbing a shot off a tray, tossing it back easily and winking over his shoulder at Pricey.

Pricey shakes his head, and melts into the crowd. It’s all good though. PK knows where to find him.


	55. Okposo/Jack Johnson, SSM

Kyle kisses a boy for the first time when he’s fourteen, when he loves hockey but he also loves cricket, and soccer, and rugby, because those were the sports his father loved.

Danny doesn’t love any sport like Kyle does, but he’s got dark skin and a shy smile and freckles across the bridge of his nose, the ridges of his shoulders from running around half naked the whole summer camp.

He kisses like Kyle’s gonna melt if he gets too close, just a brief press of lips before he’s pulling away, looking up at him, that same shy smile not even wavering.

‘Oh,’ Kyle says. He smiles down at Danny, just a couple of inches shorter than him.

He and Danny kiss a lot that summer. Kyle likes it best down by the lake, where there’s a little breeze.

School starts in a week. Kyle goes back to St Paul. Danny goes back to Tarrytown.

Kyle has a phone number on a scrap of paper. He puts it in the pocket of his shorts. Doesn’t take it out before his mom puts everything in the washing machine, en masse.

-

Shattuck Saint Mary’s is big and sprawling and almost as old at the state of Minnesota itself. Kyle falls in love with the tall staircases and the open grounds and the clean, cold smell of the ice rink.

He likes English, but falls behind in Physics. They give him a tutor.

Jack is tall and blond and broad shouldered, even at fifteen. He has a nose that looks like it’s broken and healed badly, but he never stops smiling.

He teaches Kyle about convection currents and how to make a battery out of a lemon wedge, and how to talk to the cute girl he sits next to in Calculus who doesn’t even know his name and where to put his stick to perfectly deflect a shot from the point on the ice.

He meets Jack’s best friend Sid, and knows he’s going to be something special. He compliments Kyle’s backhand with a jerky nod of the head and an uncertain smile.

Kyle finishes the year with a B in Physics, twenty goals on the season, and having kissed three girls and a boy.

-

He goes back for his junior year three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. Jack looks exactly the same. Sid didn’t come back. Kyle doesn’t ask why. Jack keeps looking sad on the ice though, when he thinks no one can see through the light reflecting on his visor.

Kyle keeps up with Physics for three weeks before he gets lost. Begs Jack to tutor him again, and they sit in Jack’s room with a bag of gummy candies and Kyle’s battered, secondhand textbook.

It becomes a weekly thing. Kyle brings candy and soda, and Jack writes things down in neat handwriting for Kyle to read through and learn, and they work through his homework together, and that’s how Kyle spends his Thursdays.

-

Three things happen in quick succession in November.

Kyle scores a hat trick. He gets an A on his Physics quiz. Jack kisses him under the bleachers.

‘Oh,’ Kyle says. He and Jack are about the same height. Jack noses at the hinge of his jaw with his wonky nose and presses another kiss to the soft skin under his ear. 

‘Oh?’ he asks, quietly.

‘I thought– you and Sid,’ Kyle says. His hands are resting on Jack’s hips like they don’t know where else to go.

Jack laughs. ‘Not anymore,’ he says. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just resigned.

‘Oh,’ Kyle says again. ‘Do you wanna?’ He tilts his head. Jack grins, and kisses him again, pressing him back against one of the pillars.

It’s the first and only time Kyle is late to hockey practice.

-

Thursday studying turns into Thursday making out on Jack’s bed turns into Kyle rubbing off on Jack’s thigh and coming in his jeans.

Turns into Jack stripping Kyle’s shirt off carefully and kissing his way down his breastbone, across the soft skin of his belly that hasn’t yet hardened to muscle.

Turns into Kyle burying his hands in Jack’s short hair, scrabbling across his skull for purchase and throwing his head back.

Turns into staying the night, sleeping in Jack’s sweats, in Jack’s bed, in Jack’s arms.

-

It becomes routine.

Kyle plays hockey, goes to class, sees Jack.

He doesn’t think they’re dating. They don’t hold hands. They don’t really talk about it. It just. Keeps happening. He thinks he’s okay with that.

-

Jack graduates and doesn’t say goodbye.

Kyle thought he’d be sadder about it.

Instead he mostly plays hockey. Gets a C in Physics.

Moves to Des Moines.

He doesn’t really kiss anyone there. His billet family has a little girl, four years old. He kisses her on the cheek when she brings him a storybook and an apple, every night. He reads to her until she passes out on top of his comforter and eats the apple once she’s tucked into her own bed.

-

New York is big. Kyle gets lost every day for a month, sometimes on purpose, tries something new for dinner every day for two months.

He falls in love with the subway, and the skyscrapers, and the cold that seeps through every single layer of clothing, no matter how much he wears.

They play the Kings in November. 

Jack hits him along the boards in the first. Kyle embarrasses him in the third, dancing around him and just squeaking a goal in.

They have dinner. They have wine.

They share a taxi back to Jack’s house in silence.

-

Afterwards, Kyle sits against the headboard, Jack dozing on his thigh.

‘Pittsburgh is a long way away from LA,’ he says, quietly. 

‘It is,’ Jack says.

‘Did you two ever figure things out?’

Jack shrugs. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he says.

-

Kyle goes back to New York.

He meets Mikke in the bodega down the block from his apartment, buying a truly impressive amount of cumin.

(’Dinner party,’ he says, wry. Kyle nods, sympathetically. He’s never thrown a dinner party in his life.) 

He has a shaved head and a half dozen tiny silver rings in one ear, and he has no idea who Kyle is.

Kyle leaves with a quart of milk, a phone number, scrawled on his receipt, and a smile.

 


	56. Saad/Crawford, five times Corey said 'I love you' and one time Brandon hears

i.

Brandon fucks him into the mattress, and kisses the back of his neck when he comes, sweat-slick, flushed. They lie tangled together until Corey’s heartbeat slows enough that his eyes start sliding shut.

‘You should go,’ he says. Brandon goes still next to him.

‘Okay,’ he says. Uncurls his hand from where his thumb was making circles on the ridge of Corey’s hipbone. Pulls his shirt on silently, his sweats. Finds his sneakers from where he kicked them off.

‘Night, Crow,’ Brandon says, blank, neutral. Corey stays where he is, back to the door. He can see Brandon’s silhouette in the light from the open door.

The door clicks shut.

‘I love you,’ Corey says to the dark of the room. He hears Brandon padding down the hall, hears his own hotel room door open and close.

Corey closes his eyes for a second, before getting up and climbing into the shower, turns it hot enough that his skin turns the same shade of red as the marks Brandon left on his back.

ii.

Corey gets his first shutout of the season in front of his whole family. His first win in Montreal, and his maman is in the crowd.

He bumps helmets with Brandon, sees him grinning ear to ear.

‘Nice game winner,’ he says.

‘Nice shutout,’ Brandon says in return. His visor is pressed right up against Corey’s cage.

He says, ‘I love you,’ just as Brandon turns to skate away. He turns back, looks at Corey, head tilted.

‘Never mind,’ Corey says, whacks him on the shinpad with the blade of his stick, and turns to accept the headbump from Hammer, who looks at him knowingly, but says nothing.

The Swedes are Corey’s favourite, really.

iii.

He practices.

He learns to stay the night, to not kick Brandon out every night.

Brandon sleeps like a corpse, like dead weight on Corey’s chest. He talks, too, mostly gibberish, but on one memorable occasion Corey finds out that Brandon’s allergic to elephants, apparently.

He learns that Brandon can hold conversations in his sleep, too.

‘Love you,’ Brandon says one night, digging the point of his nose into Corey’s shoulder, just above the collarbone.

Corey goes very still. Brandon snuffles, and holds Corey a little tighter.

‘I love you too,’ Corey says, eventually, hand resting on the nape of Brandon’s neck.

Brandon huffs. ‘Good. Can we go to the eggplant dinner party?’

Corey relaxes. ‘Yeah, cher. We can go to the eggplant dinner party.’

Brandon hums, and settles in closer. It takes Corey a while to get to sleep, after that.

iv.

Corey’s ready. He can say it. Brandon’s on the other side of the kitchen counter, measuring mascarpone.

Corey’s been thinking about it for three days. He loves Brandon, so much it honestly scares him a little. He’s finally ready for Brandon to know. He can’t keep not saying it, not when Brandon looks at him like he does.

He takes a mouthful of the iced coffee Brandon slid across when he padded into the room.

‘I love you,’ he says. It’s loud, it’s confident. It’s  _perfect_.

Brandon doesn’t respond for a second. He tips the cheese into the stainless steel mixing bowl, and then blinks, looks up.

‘Sorry babe, did you say something?’

Corey opens his mouth.

‘No, it was nothing. Just saying how good the coffee is.’

Brandon grins at him, and goes back to wielding his rubber spatula.

v.

‘Tu es l’amour de ma vie,’ Corey says.

They’re eating takeout in his living room, and half paying attention to whatever documentary Brandon put on about space.

‘Babe, you know my French is terrible,’ Brandon says, through a mouthful of pad thai.

Corey looks into his box of takeout.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I know.’

‘So, you gonna share with the class?’ Brandon teases, poking him in the side with a socked foot.

Corey takes a mouthful of noodles.

‘Maybe later,’ he says, swallowing.

+

i.

Corey’s foot hurts. 

He’s not allowed to take anything else for it for a couple of hours, and Brandon’s hidden his pills because apparently he can’t be trusted.

Brandon gets in from the game still damp from his shower. There’s snow on the shoulders of his coat.

‘I brought you dinner,’ Brandon says, holding up a bag. ‘Remember that Italian place we went to with the team a couple weeks ago? You had that amazing mushroom fettucine?’

Corey nods.

‘Well, it turns out, if you ask very nicely, and just so happen to score the winning goal in overtime, they’re more than willing to make a couple of plates to go for the hero of Chicago and his poor crippled boyfriend.’

Corey throws a cushion at him, but makes grabby hands for the foil tray of pasta. He moans when he takes a bite. Brandon’s watching him fondly, smiling over his own plate of lamb ragu.

‘I love you,’ Corey says around a chunk of mushroom, and freezes.

‘Yeah?’ Brandon says. There’s a small bundle of spaghetti twirled around his fork.

Corey swallows. Brandon takes a calm bite.

‘Yeah,’ he says, eventually.

Brandon lights up. ‘Me too. Do you want a beer?’

Corey pulls a face. ‘Can’t. Meds.’

Brandon gets up from the chair and kisses him. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

‘God, I love you so much,’ Corey sighs. Brandon kisses him again. He tastes like tomatoes and red wine.

‘I love hearing you say it,’ Brandon says, against his lips.

‘Gonna have to say it more often then, huh?’ Corey says. ‘Where’s my beer?’

Brandon laughs, and steals the forkful of pasta Corey had left propped on the side of his plate.

‘Hey,’ Corey protests, but Brandon ducks away, laughing.

‘Beer tax,’ he says, and heads for the kitchen.

‘I changed my mind!’ Corey calls after him. ‘I don’t love you!’

He can hears Brandon’s laughter all the way through the apartment.


	57. Keith/Seabrook, "belly kisses"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for one word prompts over on twitter. This is the first of many. For Kristen, light of my life, etc etc

Duncan’s half asleep when Brent gets home, slipping into the apartment quietly. He hears the clatter of keys in the bowl, and blinks an eye open when he hears him walk into the side table into the hall, just like he always does in the dark.

‘We’ve only lived here for three years,’ he mumbles, when the bedroom door opens. ‘How have you not learnt that’s where the side table lives?’

‘Shuddup,’ Brent says, kicking his shoes off, illuminated by the faint light from outside the bedroom. ‘Some of us have actually had to work today, instead of lying in bed.’

‘Fuck you,’ Duncan says, rolling onto his back. ‘Some of us had _knee surgery_ eight days ago.’

Brent pffts, shrugging out of his suit jacket and dumping it on the floor, followed swiftly by the rest of his clothes. ‘Layabout,’ he says, climbing into bed and giving Duncan a hello kiss.

‘You love me,’ Duncan says, rolling into it carefully.

‘I _missed_ you,’ Brent murmurs, running his hand over Duncan’s ribs, down to the dip of his waist.

‘Missed you too,’ Duncan says, voice hitching the tiniest bit as Brent’s fingers hit the hollow of his hip where he’s ticklish.

‘You’d better,’ Brent says. ‘I could have been hooking up with any number of young and mobile guys on the road, instead of coming home to a cripple.’

Duncan laughs. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’ Brent asks, squeezes Duncan’s hip, just a little.

‘Nah,’ Duncan says, rolls back onto his back and makes Brent follow him, kissing his jaw lightly.

Brent hums into his throat, throws a leg over Duncan’s thighs. ‘Guess not,’ he says, and squeezes again, making Duncan squirm. ‘I’d have to find someone as ticklish as you.’ He digs his thumb in properly this time, and Duncan gasps, soft.

‘Not ticklish,’ he lies, and Brent laughs, blowing warm air on Duncan’s collarbones as he kisses down to his breastbone.

‘Liar,’ he says, lips pressed to Duncan’s sternum. Duncan’s holding his breath a little.

‘Asshole,’ Duncan blurts, when Brent grabs his hips and tickles him properly, making his back arch. ‘You’ll make me tear my stitches.’

Brent stops immediately, sitting back on his heels. Duncan can see his concern in the gloom. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, stops moving his hands. Duncan’s chest is heaving a little.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Not made of glass, Biscuit.’

Brent shoves him, but gently, leans back down to kiss the bottom swell of Duncan’s pectoral. ‘Getting fat,’ he teases. ‘All this sitting around.’

‘Could still beat you one on one any day,’ Duncan says, but Brent sinks his teeth in gently, makes him gasp again, and Duncan’s quiet after that.

Brent gets territorial after they’ve been separated, always has. Not that Duncan would do anything when he’s not here, but Brent likes to come home and touch him all over, cover him in the smell of Brent’s cologne and his bite marks where no one’s going to see them.

He noses at Duncan’s navel, presses a soft, slow kiss to the trail of hair leading under the blankets, and Duncan settles, threads a hand through the long strands of hair falling into Brent’s face.

He looks up and gives Duncan a smile, lips still pressed to his belly, careful. ‘Hey,’ he says, kisses him again.

‘Hey,’ Duncan says, carding through his hair, cradling the base of Brent’s skull.

‘Gonna blow you,’ Brent says, matter-of-fact, and Duncan’s hand tightens in his hair without meaning to.

‘Yeah?’ he manages, voice tight. Brent hums, and kisses a little lower on Duncan’s stomach, right at the line where the blankets are pooled around his hips. When he shuffles back, careful of Duncan’s knee, he can see Duncan’s erection under the thin sheet.

‘You seem on board with that,’ Brent notes, innocent, and blows warm breath over the sheet, dampening it a little. Duncan’s dick twitches.

‘I’ve heard worse ideas,’ Duncan deadpans. Brent mouths wetly at the head of his cock through the material, point of his tongue digging in just under the frenulum. Duncan’s breathing is becoming thin, shallow. 

Brent’s hands are still on his hips, thumb brushing the ridge there slowly. He kisses his stomach one last time before biting the cloth carefully and tugging it down. Duncan’s dick bobs nonsensically when it’s free, and Brent licks his lower lip. Duncan’s a little in love with the way the shadows cast over his face from the streetlight through the curtain.

Brent sucks dick like he does everything else; with the same singular focus he uses on the ice. He’s pinning Duncan carefully, so he won’t hurt his knee if he twists funny, and his mouth is latched around the head of Duncan’s cock, sucking slowly but firmly. He never takes any more than that in, just keeps suckling until Duncan’s gasping, his free hand fisting in the sheets.

It’s almost a surprise when he comes, but it probably shouldn’t be, starved as he’s been of Brent’s touch for a week, but he arches up into Brent’s mouth and comes easily, almost languid. He feels as though he’s still asleep, a little bit, his limbs are heavy with the orgasm, and Brent is draped across his lower body. Duncan can feel his erection pressed up against his good knee.

‘You want me to?’ he asks, but he’s drifting again already, eyes sliding shut. He’s always been useless after sex. Brent likes to say it’s one of his least favourite things about him, with varying degrees of seriousness.

‘Nah,’ Brent says, shuffling back up the bed. ‘Tomorrow morning, yeah?’

‘Definitely,’ Duncan mumbles, and he’s awake long enough to feel Brent wrapping a long arm around his waist and kissing his shoulder, settling around Duncan like he belongs there, before sighing, content. Duncan falls asleep warm and comfortable and sleeps better than he has in a week.


	58. Bollig/Saad/Shaw, "vacation"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for my best girl and all around a+ person, Jenna
> 
> set during the ASG break where they all fucked off to Mexico for a week.

 

Brandon kinds of feels like being on vacation should mean like, going out and doing stuff.

‘We are doing stuff,’ Boller says, from the bed, where he has Andy pinned, belly down, while he wriggles.

‘You’re doing Andy,’ Brandon points out. ‘You could do Andy in Chicago.’

‘What’s your point?’ Boller asks, running a hand down the arc of Andy’s spine, slowly, making him wriggle.

‘My point is that it’s like a hundred degrees outside and minus a billion in Chicago, and we should take advantage of the weather before going back and having to wear a million layers.’

‘So-- you’re saying we should fuck on the beach?’ Andy asks. Boller leans down and bites the nape of his neck, making him whine.

‘We could go _swimming_ ,’ Brandon says. Boller rolls his hips, and hums.

‘We could go to the hotel bar,’ Andy says, breathy.

‘Surfing,’ Brandon continues. ‘You know, stuff that we can’t do in winter in Chicago.’

‘After this,’ Boller says, and thrusts into Andy, rough, making him shout. Brandon guesses waiting a half hour wouldn’t hurt. He shifts in his chair, and works a hand into his underwear.

-

Andy is unfairly good at surfing. Boller gets hit on by about a hundred Mexican people, men and women, despite the visible hickeys on his throat and chest. He’s incredibly smug about it.

Brandon finds somewhere to lounge after falling off his surfboard for the millionth time and ogles Andy and his low slung board shorts while he tries to bury Boller in the sand to his neck. Boller is having none of it, and they end up wrestling in the sand and laughing hysterically.

Brandon loves them so much it’s honestly a little embarrassing. He escapes the shade and goes to join them. No one knows who they are here, he feels safe to jump on Andy’s back and send him crashing to the ground where he can tickle him until he cries.

-

‘I hate the beach,’ Brandon whines, lying face down on their bed. ‘My skin hurts.’

‘What happened to taking advantage of the weather?’ Boller asks. He’s unfairly golden from the sunshine. Brandon feels like a freshly cooked lobster.

‘How was I supposed to know I’d need stronger than _SPF 50_?’ Brandon moans. ‘Someone rub aloe vera on me immediately.’

Andy laughs, and Brandon hears the click of a cap, and something cool on his skin. He arches into the touch, and makes a happy sound.

‘You’re my favourite,’ he says. ‘I always liked you.’

‘I _knew_ it,’ Andy says, presses a loud, wet kiss to his back.

Andy rubs the lotion all the way down his back, and when he gets to the line of Brandon’s shorts, he pulls them down, carefully. Brandon’s about to protest that he’s not burnt _there_ , when he feels Andy biting one cheek, less carefully, and _oh_.

-

‘Still think we should be at the beach?’ Andy asks, wedging himself between the two Brandons, covered in a sheen of sweat and grinning like an idiot.

Brandon hums, lazy. ‘Maybe there are benefits to the hotel room,’ he concedes, running a hand down Andy’s chest, palming his dick absently.

‘Agreed,’ Boller says, already half asleep, but curling tight around Andy like he always does after sex, and kissing his neck where there’s already a purpling bite mark shaped bruise.


	59. Giroux/Hartnell, "quiet"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for jenna

Claude Giroux is good at a lot of things. Mostly hockey related, in truth, but there are a lot of things he’s very good at.

Claude Giroux is not good at being quiet, Scott knows. Not unless he really wants to be.

‘ _Scotty,_ ’ he whines, arching his back.

Scott shushes him, sliding his pinky finger between Claude’s wrist and the rope; just enough give that his hands won’t turn blue, not enough that he’ll be able to pull free easily.

‘Hurry up and _fuck_ me,’ Claude says, petulant. He’s in one of those moods tonight, Scott’s sure, keeps mouthing off at him, touching Scott when he’s been told to keep his hands above his head

‘Give me a colour, baby,’ Scott says, checking the other wrist, before trailing his fingertips down his pale forearm to paler tricep, where the freckles get a little less dense, all the way down to the wiry orange hair in his underarm. Claude hisses, and tries to jerk his arm down to stop Scott tickling, but he’s held fast by the knots around the headboard and his wrists.

‘Colour, Claude,’ Scott says, hand curled around his ribcage, thumb just skirting the edge of his nipple.

Claude looks up at him, flushed, curls a mess, jaw set, stubborn. ‘Green,’ he says. ‘ _Fuck_ me.’

‘You’re impatient today,’ Scott says, casual.

‘And you’re being a tease,’ Claude says, fisting and unfisting his hands.

Scott shrugs. ‘I’ll fuck you if you’re good,’ he says. ‘You know the rules.’

Claude doesn’t particularly look like he’s in the mood to be good. Secretly, this is Scott’s favourite Claude, chin tilted up in defiance, tugging at his bonds. Scott likes breaking him down, making him be good, but mostly he loves the fight in Claude’s eyes. He never wants Claude to just roll over and give him what he wants, and he knows that’s not what Claude wants, either.

‘You gonna be good?’ Scott asks, lightly. He doesn’t ask _you gonna be quiet?_ Doesn’t need to. His hand has moved down to Claude’s hip, scratching lightly at the bruise he’s found there, yellow and mostly healed. 

‘Maybe,’ Claude says. ‘Fuck me and find out.’

Scott hits him, lightly, just tapping him in the jaw with the flat of his hand. A red mark appears, angry, and Claude’s mouth hangs open, shocked.

‘Behave, Clo,’ he says, and throws a leg over him. ‘Or is that too much of a challenge for you?’

Claude’s mouth snaps shut, and he sets his jaw. Works every time, Scott thinks. He wraps a hand around Claude’s dick and jerks him a couple of times, until he’s all the way hard, and Claude is silent.

‘Good boy,’ Scott murmurs, and shuffles down to nudge his legs apart. ‘You gonna keep it up for me?’

Claude is looking down at him, flushed. He tosses his head, and flares his nostrils, but he stays quiet. Scott pats his belly, kisses his inner thigh, pushes deeper, to the darker skin under his balls.

Scott hasn’t shaved in a couple days, is leaving red marks all over Claude’s thighs, but all he can hear are his own wet sounds, and Claude’s heavy breathing that isn’t quite panting. Scott points his tongue and pushes it past his rim, and is rewarded with a breath being punched out of Claude, but he keeps his mouth shut. Scott bites the meat of his ass gently, to remind him to keep being good.

‘ _Scotty_ ,’ Claude mumbles, trying to catch his breath. ‘Scotty, I need--’

Scott shushes him, running the flat of his tongue over the bitemark. ‘You’re doing so good, baby. So good.’

Claude lapses into broken silence again, his breathing jagged as Scott works his tongue back in. It gets a little high pitched as Claude gets closer, as Scott can feel his thighs and abs tensing up. He has his feet planted on the bed so he can arch his hips. He’s trying his best to fuck himself on Scott’s tongue.

‘Maybe I’ll tie your ankles next time, as well,’ Scott murmurs, and Claude makes a soft sound and comes without warning, all over his belly.

Scott wishes they had a little more time, wishes he could take advantage of Claude being oversensitive and on edge, but the time he could have spent on Claude’s second orgasm, he has to use on untying his wrists, rubbing them with lotion and making sure he hasn’t damaged anything.

‘I was good, right?’ Claude asks, while Scott’s coiling the rope up, slipping it into his bag. They have to go and meet the team soon.

‘Yeah, Clo,’ Scott says, turning back to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and palming his cheek, thumbing at the faint mark still lingering on his jaw. ‘Real good for me.’


	60. Jenner/Murray/Jones, "mine"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for jenna

 

Boone’s not blind, and he’s not stupid. He sees how Ryan looks at Seth. He _hears_ about Seth every goddamn day on the way home from the rink, or over dinner, or when they’re lying in bed together, trying to sleep.

Boone hasn’t really had a chance to meet Seth yet, he’s kind of quiet, sticks close to the D core. He’s really, really fucking good at hockey, Boone knows. He seems nice, too. Ryan likes him a lot. Boone hates him a little bit.

In Boone’s defence, when it happens, he’s pretty drunk. They’re at a bar in Montreal, and yeah, maybe beating Habs goalie Ben Scrivens isn’t as impressive as beating Habs goalie Carey Price, but back to back _convincing_ wins going into the All Star Break is worth celebrating. He’s about three beers deep when he sees Seth and Ryan draped over each other, honest to god _giggling_.

‘Looks like someone has a new bestie,’ Dubi says, dropping into the seat next to him, sliding over another beer. Boone curls his lip.

‘Whatever,’ he says, takes a pull from the new bottle.

‘Jealous, Jens?’

Boone scoffs. ‘Whatever,’ he says again.

‘So-- yes,’ Dubi says. ‘Word of advice, kid.’ Boone looks up long enough to scowl at him.

‘What?’

‘Trust your boy,’ he says. ‘He’s crazy about you.’

Boone hums, non-committal, and looks over at them again. Ryan’s trying to pull Seth onto the dance floor.

He opens his mouth, but Dubi interrupts him. ‘Don’t whatever me again, kid. Stop sulking and go hang out with your boy and /your teammate/.’

Boone scowls, but heaves himself out of his chair and pushes through a crowd, leaving his beer on a table to grab Ryan by the waist and push his face into his neck.

‘Hey babe,’ he murmurs, kissing his throat. ‘Looking for a dance partner?’

‘Seth is being _boring_ ,’ Ryan complains. ‘Dance with me, Boone.’

‘Always,’ he says, and lets Ryan pull him out onto the dancefloor. He’s not proud of the look he gives Seth over his shoulder, but. He lets Ryan plaster himself against his front, and he grabs his hips and sways with him, still kissing up and down his neck. No one knows them in Montreal, it’s safe.

‘Seth’s watching us,’ Ryan says to him, half shouting over the music.

‘Let him,’ Boone says. ‘Maybe he’s jealous.’

‘Of us?’

‘Of me,’ Boone says.

Ryan goes quiet, and then, ‘He’s coming over.’

Boone lifts his head, looks over his shoulder in time for Seth to join them, pressing against Boone’s back, dropping a hand to his hip. ‘Can I?’ he asks, unsure.

Ryan grins, and nods, and Boone says nothing.

He’s tense at first, but loosens up quickly, finding a rhythm easily, and soon he’s perfectly in time with Boone and Ryan, getting a little braver, a little closer, until he’s flush up against Boone and has a hand on the back of Ryan’s neck. Boone isn’t a small guy by any stretch of the imagination, but Seth makes him feel smaller, towering over him and Ryan both.

His shirt is sticking to him, and he’s sticking to Ryan and Seth, sweat pouring off him, caught in between them. Ryan’s pushed a leg between his thighs, and he’s idly rubbing off on it while Seth grips his waist harder.

‘You guys look real good together,’ Seth says in Boone’s ear. ‘I didn’t know you were-- like this.’

‘We are,’ Boone says. ‘Gonna be a problem?’

Seth shakes his head, knocking into Boone’s head with his nose. ‘It’s hot,’ he admits.

Boone lifts his head to look at Ryan. He’s staring at Seth, jaw hanging open a little. He glances over at Boone, then back at Seth.

‘I’m gonna get some water,’ Seth says, and steps away. Boone absolutely does not miss the heat against his back. He _doesn’t_.

‘I want him,’ Ryan says, almost immediately. ‘You do too, right? You’ve been watching him.’ Something mean curls in Boone’s gut.

‘I’ve been watching you,’ he says. ‘He’s just-- there.’

‘But you want him.’ Ryan argues.

Boone opens his mouth to argue, and then looks across the club to where Seth’s standing at the bar, shirt clinging to him, translucent under the lights.

‘I _knew_ it,’ Ryan says. ‘Let’s take him home.’

Boone scowls. ‘He likes you,’ he says.

‘--That’s a bad thing?’ Ryan asks, leaning in for a quick brush of lips across Boone’s jaw.

‘You’re _mine_ ,’ Boone growls, grabbing at Ryan’s hips to pull him impossibly closer. He turns his head to give him a biting kiss.

‘I’m still yours, even if we take him home,’ Ryan says. ‘I bet he’d let you fuck him.’

Boone goes hot at that, has to suppress a shiver. ‘He’s not fucking you. If we take him,’ he says. ‘ _Mine_.’

‘I’m yours, babe,’ Ryan promises. ‘And you’re mine.’

‘But you want him.’

‘I really, really do,’ Ryan says, glancing over at him. Seth’s picking his way through the crowd towards them, three bottles of water in his hands.

‘Okay,’ Boone says, licking a stripe up Ryan’s throat, making him shiver. ‘Let’s take him home.’


	61. Saad/Shaw, "Boxing"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jenna asked for "anyone/anyone, boxing", and I miss Saad/Shaw, so. This is what y'all get.

 

Brandon’s there to support a buddy, more than anything else. He doesn’t really like fighting, and he especially doesn’t like _this_ , an underground fighting ring in a bar basement. He’s seen Fight Club, okay, he knows how this goes and he doesn’t want Bolly to shoot himself in the cheek.

The fight before Bolly’s, Brandon’s kind of lurking in the background, half paying attention, half keeping an ear out for the inevitable police sirens. He hears people whispering about a mutt, and someone comes up and asks if he’s brave enough to bet against a guy called Shaw, but Brandon just politely declines, and goes back to idly watching a guy in a giant hooded sweatshirt jumping rope. He’s smaller than most of the guys here, and when he finally pushes his way through the crush of people to the makeshift ring, Brandon finds himself wanting to follow.

He slips out of the hoodie silently, looks even smaller bare chested. There’s enough light in here for Brandon to see the scars across his cheekbone and jaw. He bounces from foot to foot while his opponent peels a shirt off and steps into the ring. He must have a foot of height on the smaller guy, and fifty pounds.

‘Kick his ass, mutt!’ someone shouts, and the smaller guy grins, dark. He winks at the bigger guy, and curls his hands into fists.

The fight doesn’t last long. Mutt knocks him to the ground with a knee to the stomach, and puts the knee on his chest, punches him in the face until the back of his head slams off the concrete. His face is flecked with blood when he gets pulled off. Mutt scans the audience, chest heaving. His eyes are _wild_ , like he’s high or something, but when they land on Brandon, he winks, and his smile gets even bigger. Brandon doesn’t drop his gaze, even though he wants to. He holds steady, just long enough for Mutt’s smile to get a little less wild, a little more-- deliberate, Brandon thinks.

Someone bumps him from behind, and he stumbles, dropping his gaze, and when he looks up, Mutt is pushing his way through the crowd. It takes a lot of willpower not to follow him.

Bolly wins his fight, too, but though Brandon’s right there, watching, he’s thinking about the little guy from before, who should by all rights have been pounded into the concrete several times over.

-

Next week, Bolly’s not fighting. He’s got a job interview, says he doesn’t want to show up looking like ground meat, which, Brandon totally gets. He doesn’t really make any other plans, sits at home dicking around on his phone until he looks up at it’s ten thirty. Doors to the club open at eleven.

Brandon hates fighting.

Twenty minutes later, he’s in a crowd of people, straining his neck to see if Mutt’s there that night.

He’s there. Brandon gets the feeling he’s there every night he can be.

There’s a purpling bruise on his cheekbone, just starting to swell, even before he’s stepped into the ring. He wins his fight again, like it’s easy, like the other guy doesn’t tower over everyone else there.

After, Brandon approaches him. He doesn’t know why. He’s sitting on an overturned keg, sipping water from a crunched up plastic bottle. He looks up when Brandon stops in front of him and spits blood onto the ground.

‘You want something?’ he asks.

‘Why do you keep fighting guys twice your size?’ Brandon asks, without really knowing what he’s saying. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier fighting someone smaller?’

Mutt laughs, ugly. ‘I don’t come here for easy, freshman.’

Brandon frowns. ‘How do you--’

‘You’re in my American Lit class,’ Mutt says. ‘You have a lot of feelings about Hemingway.’

‘He’s everything wrong with American literature in the 20th century,’ Brandon says, heated, and Mutt laughs again, spits on the ground again.

‘Why do you come here?’ Brandon asks, after a pause.

Mutt shrugs. ‘I like it,’ he says, chewing at his busted lip.

Brandon hums. ‘I’m Brandon,’ he says, and holds out a hand.

Mutt’s knuckles are split to hell when they shake. Brandon’s hand comes away with a smear of blood on the thumb. ‘Andy,’ he says, and spits one final time before finishing his bottle of water. ‘Wanna buy me a drink?’


	62. Nick/Bob - soulmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by @SERGEIBOBROVSKY on twitter. "Nick/Bob - the one where soulmates share extreme physical sensation (pain, etc)"
> 
> For the mini soulmate ficfest I'm doing right now.

Nick goes down against LA and Sergei can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his head. It’s the worst kind of silence, he can see his teammates lips moving, can see the restlessness of the crowd, but all he can hear is his own pulse, thick and heavy and slow in his head.

Nick is motionless on the ice, face down and still as death. Sergei is holding his breath without meaning to, and he lets it go in a slow release as Nick raises his head, just a little.

Sergei’s neck is cramping, and there’s this pressure at the base of his skull, like someone’s choking him. He takes a drink of rink-cold water and tries to wash the tension away, but he can’t take his eyes off of Nick. Every time he tries to look away, to shake his head or adjust his glove where it’s digging into his wrist, his attention is dragged back to them strapping Nick into the stretcher.

Nick gives the crowd a thumbs up as he leaves the ice, and something in Sergei’s chest loosens a little. He still feels like he’s moving in slow motion though, as he watches one of the Kings score on him twice to close out the game. 5-2, and no Nick in the locker room.

Sergei’s head hurts. He feels groggy, like he’s on a time delay. When people talk to him while he’s getting dressed after the game, their lips don’t sync with the sound. English is already hard for him, but it’s harder now, and he’s never been more grateful for Arty and Tyuts, who translate for him in slow, easy Russian.

They don’t have a game for a couple of days, so the team stays in LA overnight, waiting for Nick to get released from the hospital.

Sergei doesn’t sleep. Around three am, the neck cramps come back, and he tosses and turns, looking for a comfortable position. He drifts off in the early hours of the morning, just before his alarm goes off.

Nick is waiting for them at the airport, looking drawn but smiling wide. Sergei gets that strange, loose sensation in his chest, like all his ribs are expanding, and he smiles. Beside him, Tyuts hums, like he’s just worked out the last clue in his crossword.

Sergei frowns, blinks. ‘What?’ he asks, in quiet Russian.

Tyuts shrugs. ‘Your face when you look at him. Your headache is gone, right?’

Sergei hadn’t realised, but. Yes. He nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nick poking at Joey, antagonising him like the worst kind of big brother.

Tyuts nods, knowingly, and says something to Arty, who’s eyes widen.

‘ _What?_ ’ Sergei asks, and they just shake their heads. 

‘You’ll figure it out,’ Arty says, patting him on the shoulder before heading off to bug Dubi.

-

‘You okay?’ Nick asks, dropping into the seat next to him on the plane. Sergei tilts his head, confused. Nick always sits next to Joey on the plane.

He nods, when he realises Nick is waiting for an answer. ‘You?’ he asks. ‘Head okay?’

‘Sore neck,’ Nick says. ‘They gave me some really great painkillers, but they make my head fuzzy.

Sergei’s neck throbs in sympathy. ‘Going to be okay to play?’ he asks. 

‘Not tomorrow,’ Nick says. ‘Next game, maybe. If the cramps stop.’

Sergei nods. ‘Sorry you sitting,’ he says.

Nick shrugs. ‘I’ll live. How you feeling after last night?’

‘Hate losing,’ Sergei says, because he knows that’s what he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t say that thinking about Nick lying on the ice makes him sick to his stomach.

‘Me too,’ Nick says, pats Sergei on the shoulder gently. ‘We’ll get em next time. Fuck LA.’

-

Sergei joins Nick in the press box for the game against Ottawa, after his neck totally seizes up in practice.

‘Did you take a hit or a knock in the LA game?’ the trainers ask, but Sergei doesn’t think so. He doesn’t remember much of the game, but he thinks he’d remember being hit hard enough to give him spasms in his upper back.

Nick looks as miserable in his suit as Sergei feels. They cluster together in the corner and watch their guys crumble on home ice. It sucks. Sergei wants desperately to be down there on the ice, shouldering the loss with them.

‘I wish I was down there,’ Nick says. He’s pale again, his neck must be hurting him, too. Sergei twists his lips and lifts a shoulder up and down. It sends a spiral of pain up and down his spine, and he winces.

‘Have the doctors figured out what’s wrong yet?’ Nick asks. He puts a hand on the nape of Sergei’s neck, just briefly. His hand is warm. It helps, a little.

‘Not yet. Everyone very confused. Watch the whole Kings game to see if someone hit me.’

‘Nothing?’ Nick asks. He looks concerned.

‘Nothing yet. Maybe something in practice? Neck just really hurts sometimes.’

‘Weird that we got the same injury,’ Nick muses, looking down at the ice. The Sens have scored another goal.

Sergei hums. ‘Weird,’ he agrees.

-

The pain fades not long after Sergei gets home. His phone buzzes with a text.

 _Thank god for codeine,_ Nick says.

_You just took a pill?_ Sergei asks.

_Yep_ , Nick says, and things start to click into place.

_My pain gone too_ , he types.

Nick doesn’t text back for a long time after that.

-

Nick plays against the Leafs. Sergei is still stuck in the press box. They know what happened to Nick, and though he still gets twinges, he insists he can play. They don’t know why Sergei gets the twinges, so he gets to sit in his uncomfortable suit and watch the team lose their fourth in a row.

After the game, in the locker room, Nick keeps looking at him funny. Sergei’s talking to Mac about the game, but he can feel Nick’s eyes on him.  At one point, he catches him talking to Arty and then gesturing over to Sergei. Sergei frowns, and Nick glances over, a little flushed. Sergei assumes it’s from the game.

Sergei’s neck twinges. Across the room, Nick rubs at his own neck, grimacing.

-

_We might be soulmates,_ the text on Sergei’s phone reads. Sergei doesn’t know what that means. He plugs the word into the English to Russian app on his phone. родственная душа.

_Oh_ , he texts. _That-- makes sense._

_ Arty says he’s known for ages. He was the one who tipped me off. Can I come over? _

_Door is open_ , Sergei says, and puts his phone on the counter to stir his pasta.

-

‘Soulmates,’ he says, awkwardly rolling the word around his mouth.

‘Uh,’ Nick says. ‘Yeah. Arty-- and Google-- think that’s what’s causing your neck pain. He says when Dubi broke his hand a few years back, he got really bad pains in his own hand even though he didn’t do anything to it. Google says that sometimes soulmates can feel the others pain. It-- dilutes it, a little. Makes it less bad.’

‘Sharing,’ Sergei says, thoughtfully.

‘Kind of,’ Nick says, and then lapses into silence. ‘I didn’t mean to share the pain with you.’

‘Happens,’ Sergei says. ‘Apparently. Is okay. Means less pain for you, right?’

Nick smiles at him, soft and brilliant. Sergei’s starting to realise he’d take worse than neck pain to see Nick smile like that all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm folignos on twitter, come scream about the blue jackets with me


	63. Cam/Joey, soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @knavishgreikar on twitter. she wanted "cam/joey soulmate au where they have the last words their soulmate says to them on their body"

Cam’s words appear late in life. He wakes up the morning before the draft and feels sick, but he gets an ace bandage and wraps his wrist so he can hide it on the way to the store for a real guard. He feels like the worst person in the world.

-

‘Can we talk?’ Cam’s trying his best to keep his voice even, calm. Joey’s upset, and he doesn’t want to make it worse.

‘We are talking,’ Joey says, rolling over so he’s looking up at Cam, instead of pillowing his cheek on his thigh.

‘No, I mean, about--’ he stops. ‘Never mind.’

Joey sits up. ‘My plane leaves in an hour,’ he says. ‘I don’t wanna talk.’

‘What do you wanna do?’ Cam asks, knowing the answer, and getting an armful of his boyfriend. He sends Joey to Nashville with a hickey on his collarbone and a promise.

-

They talk on the phone. It’s not the same. They Skype, and that’s a little better, but it’s still not the same.

The words on Cam’s wrist burn when he adjusts his wristguard.

-

‘What’s wrong?’

Cam startles. Joey’s not usually this perceptive. It’s the middle of the offseason, and he’s in Vancouver for a few days to hang out with Joey, because his parents keep wanting to meet the boy that calmed Joey down.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re acting weird,’ Joey says, into the nape of Cam’s neck. It’s the early hours of the morning, and they’re enjoying just being together, without the stress of a game, or knowing they have to be somewhere in the morning.

‘I’m just lying here,’ Cam says, because he is, just lying there, playing with Joey’s hands where one is settled on his hip.

‘You’re clingy,’ Joey accuses. ‘And quiet.’

‘It’s four am, Joey.’

‘What don’t you want to talk about?’ he asks.

Cam sighs. For all his dopey expressions and hurt puppy dog face, Joey’s-- surprisingly perceptive, sometimes.

‘Can we talk in the morning?’ he asks, defeated.

‘No,’ Joey starts. ‘Why not n--’

‘Please,’ Cam says, closing his eyes. ‘Please let’s talk about it in the morning. I promise I won’t avoid it any more.’

Joey doesn’t agree, but he does go quiet. Cam waits for the slow rise of his chest to even out, and knows he’s fallen asleep.

Cam doesn’t sleep much that night.

-

He gets up before Joey wakes up so he can shower, takes off the wrist guard and thumbs the words there. He can’t shake the feeling that Joey’s going to say them today.

-

Joey’s always super out of it when he first wakes up, all groggy and confused, and hair going in every direction.

Cam kisses his cheek when he wobbles into the bathroom, and refastens his wrist guard.

‘You gonna tell me what’s wrong?’ Joey asks, after he’s showered and is ready to face the world.

Cam takes a deep breath.

‘We should break up,’ he says.

Joey stops-- everything. He just freezes, halfway through putting a shirt on. Cam can see the muscles in his back twitching. ‘Why?’ he asks, quiet.

‘Because I can’t-- I don’t want to be a long distance boyfriend,’ Cam says, feeling like the worst person in the world. ‘I don’t want to see you twice a year and then play against you. It fucking _sucks_ , Ry.’

Joey takes a breath, and then another. He pulls the shirt over his stomach and licks his lips, nervous. ‘Don’t I get a say?’ he asks.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cam says. He really, really is. He loves Joey, he does. He just-- can’t.

‘Don’t do this,’ Joey whispers, and Cam’s heart breaks. His wrist throbs.

‘I’m-- sorry,’ he says again, and leaves.

Joey doesn’t shout after him. Cam makes it all the way to the airport in his hire car before breaking down, ripping his wrist guard off.

_Don’t do this_ , it says, in thick, jagged letters.

‘Fuck,’ he says, and buckles it back on carefully before getting out of the car.


	64. Dubinsky/Anisimov, soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you recognise the pattern, yet? more soulmates for @SERGEIBOBROVSKY, who wants dubi/arty where the words on dubi's wrist are in cyrillic. ask and ye shall receive!

Brandon finds out his soulmate is Russian when he’s eight years old.

‘What’s it say, mama?’ he’d asked, when his words first came in, and she just shook her head and said she didn’t know. His grandma says it’s Russian, but won’t tell him what it says. Brandon wonders if maybe it’s a curse.

He’d turned his wrist this way and that, admiring it.

When he gets older, he finds out that there are websites you can go to if your words are in a different language. He flicks through pages and pages of Cyrillic text, matches the letters to the ones on his wrist, but he can’t find the exact translation. 

He writes it out a few dozen times on a sheet of paper, learning the way the words curve differently to English.

_Я чертовски открыт_ , it says, and he knows the backwards R is how they write I, but beyond that, he’s got nothing. He figures out that _открыт_ is open, but the website won’t tell him what the middle word is. He thinks he has an idea, but. It doesn’t matter right now.

He gets older still, and his friends start meeting their soulmates, and he keeps playing hockey.

When he gets to Hartford after being drafted, there are a couple of guys who speak a little Russian on the team, but he has to wear the league mandated wrist guard in Rangers blue, and he just-- doesn’t ask anyone. A couple of guys on the team flaunt their words, but they’re guys that have met their soulmates. He doesn’t know anyone on the team who has words in another language. He keeps quiet. Plays hockey.

-

He meets Arty in the rain before morning skate. The guy looks lost, frowning at his phone and looking up at the MSG doors.

‘This way,’ he says, and the guy looks up, eyes wide. He stares at Brandon, who takes a second, but just repeats his words. ‘You’re the new callup, right? An-- Anisimov? Did I get that right?’

The guy nods.

‘Russian?’ Brandon asks. The words on his wrist itch. Another nod. Brandon wonders if maybe he’ll tell him what’s on his wrist. Maybe he has a sister, he thinks, as an aside, and waves Anismov over to the players entrance.

-

Anisimov is quiet. He’s a center, he got drafted last year, he tells Kali to call him Arty, so they do.

He gets on the ice like the rest of the team, lines up for drills, and then it’s like the words won’t stop coming. He shouts, mostly in Russian, but occasionally in English. Brandon is also a shouter, so he gets it. 

They’re both centers, don’t get paired up a lot, but on a four on four drill they do, and Brandon has a wide open lane to the net, is just about to take a shot when Arty roars at him from across the ice, ‘YA chertovski otkryt!’

Brandon’s so surprised he passes to him, and Arty scores a beautiful goal from one knee that has the bench jeering and chirping Hank for letting the rookie score on him.

‘Speak Russian?’ Arty asks him, in the locker room after.

Brandon shakes his head. ‘I figured you wanted the puck, so I passed. What did you say?’ he asks.

‘I, uh, said I was open,’ Arty admits.

Brandon thinks about his wrist. ‘I’m open? That’s all?’

Arty grins a little, shakes his head. ‘I say, not sure what word is in English, but in Russian it’s chertovski? Means like-- sex, almost, but not.’

‘Fucking?’ Brandon asks. 

Arty frowns. ‘Think so,’ he says. 

Brandon takes a breath, and unfastens the velcro on his wrist. ‘Did you say this?’ he asks, holding it out.

Arty’s hand is hot on his skin as he turns Brandon’s wrist towards him. He looks at it for a long time before running his thumb over the words, light. It tickles, and Brandon has to fight not to squirm.

‘YA chertovski otkryt,’ he says again, like he’s reading it, and laughs. 

‘No wonder my babuska wouldn’t tell me what it said,’ Brandon says, lightly. Arty is still holding his wrist. ‘Do you--’ he stops, and Arty looks up at him. Brandon nods at the wrist guard. ‘Am I under there?’ he asks.

Arty looks reluctant to let go of his wrist, but he does, and tugs his own guard loose.

_This way_ , it says, in thin, spidery letters.

‘Huh,’ Brandon says. ‘That’s-- huh.’

‘Is bad?’ Arty asks, cautious.

‘What?’ Brandon asks, taken aback. ‘No, no, it’s awesome, I never-- I never learnt how to pronounce the words, so I figured I’d never know who my soulmate was. This is kind of awesome, though.’

‘Good,’ Arty says. ‘Then we--’ Brandon tilts his head. ‘We soulmates?’

‘Looks like,’ Brandon says, and Arty smiles bright enough to light up the whole room.


End file.
